Resurrection
by Cgal the Avenger
Summary: Frollo didn't topple down Notre Dame that fiery day, and instead is arrested. A year later, he is reinstated as minister, and seeks to leave behind the memories of his temptress. But when a certain, shellshocked gypsy returns, will he be able to fight temptation? And will they be able to find peace? Rated M for sexual content
1. Prologue

Inspired by a Tumblr RP between smolderingeyesravenhair and thisfireinmyskin. People, go follow them, they're awesome!

TW for this chapter: sexual abuse

xxx

Esmeralda clings to Quasimodo's large palm, but her eyes are affixed on the man towering above her, sword in hand.

Then, the unthinkable happens. Her hand slips.

"NO!" the woman shrieks, fingers clawing at empty air.

But the rescuer is rescued. Esmeralda watches as another hero below catches her brave defender.

She hears the laugh, that sinister, mocking laugh. Her gaze darts up to the dark figure that now hoists a sword above his head.

His eyes burn with the need to destroy, to kill. The monster stares at his hapless prey, about to leap across the divide, plunge the sword into the temptress's neck and spill her crimson blood over the steps. _The blood of a demon on the floors of a church. How poetic._

But... fate had other plans.

Both parties hear an alarming crack. And Frollo's bloodlust is interrupted by his own fear as his balance, his own center of gravity, tips.

His gaze snaps up to the very thing he had sought to destroy. Her gaze, her emerald gaze burrows into his own, as the very knowledge of his precarious situation flashes through both their minds as momentary as a lightning bolt splitting the sky.

She has done this for sure. He is certain that her treachery has led him here, and that she had planned this demise all along. And now he would die. He would fail, and die.

The epiphany of his situation only takes mere milliseconds in both their minds.

But mere milliseconds are all it takes to change the course of events entirely.

He topples back, arms flailing in such an undignified way... when a hand grasps the front of his robes, and yanks him back.

Instantly, Esmeralda lets go of the black velvet, horror flooding through her system. Questions blaze through her head-the most prevalent being, _why save him?_

She stumbles back, tripping over her own tired feet. Her body slams into the stone floor, knocking the wind out of her.

Frollo stumbles back onto the ledge, the utter shock of the events that had transpired still fresh in his mind. As he falls beside her, the succubus, the _witch,_ the cold stone does not register. No. Instead all he can think about, all he can see is the witch sprawled on the floor, her green eyes so wide, so consuming.

She _saved_ him.

_She_ saved him.

And now, she tries to scramble away, run away like a frightened child. But his hand claws at her arm and slams her down into the ground.

She lets out a cry of pain as her head connects to the stone ground. Stars blink before her eyes, dancing before his leering, approaching face. He's on top of her, pinning her down.

Frollo sinks his nails into her skin. Her act of mercy... is it simply a need to keep him alive because of her spell? Because she needs him alive in order to torment him?

Well, then he shall teach her the price of such schemes.

She struggles valiantly, her hoarse voice screaming for help. It is time to silence her wicked tongue once and for all.

Before he can think, his lips are upon hers, crushing, violating, tasting. Her sweet flavor hits his tongue, and heat courses through his veins. A muffled shriek reverberates against their lips, their intertwined lips, oh! She tastes too good to be human.

Dread crashes on her as ecstasy soars within him. She wriggles and squirms, only to realize, her movements are satisfying the carnal hunger he possesses, the one he's always possessed since he groped her within this very cathedral. Tears sting her eyes as he pants and moves against her, the hard rod of his erection grinding into her. _Stop, stop, stop!_She inwardly screams, trying to bite him, pinch him, do anything to get this monster off of her. Disgust mingles with her own horror as the beast ignores her struggles, and simply presses harder. Her skin crawls, and a crushing weight presses on her chest, and not just his body pinning her down.

He yanks his head off, only to resume pressing his scalding lips to her neck, his cunning fingers pulling at her dirty, singed prison shift. Esmeralda opens her lips scream, only for hoarse, broken cries to leave her mouth. He leers at this, and groans into her neck. "Mine, mine, mine forever," he mutters over and over, branding her with his acid lips. She struggles, repulsed by him, frightened by him, angered by him. "Get off me! Now!" she says, jerking beneath him.

"Your spell no longer will have hold on me, gypsy," he sneers. For a moment, he stares into those glinting eyes, those luscious, swollen lips... and is absolutely bewitched. He shifts, pinning both of her wrists down with one of his own large hands. As he drags his hand down her body, Esmeralda is paralyzed by repulsion and fear. _No, please, just stop!_ She inwardly screams, the hand now akin to fire in her mind- to be avoided at all cost.

But he ignores her pleading, forges on. His hands grip at her shift and begin to pull upward, revealing her squirming, smooth legs. His breathing hastens and he can barely hold himself up as her luscious expanse of flesh is revealed.

"You wished to let me live, to keep tormenting me with enchantments. I shall teach you the punishment for such heathen folly!" he spits out, his voice rough with arousal. His own loins swell, and there is nothing she could do but scream weakly for help as he grasps at his robes to push them away and reveal his arousal.

If he had been his usual, meticulous self, he would have heard the footsteps behind him.

But he didn't. Which is why both Phoebus and Quasimodo are able to wrench the Minister from the fallen gypsy, and slam him into the stone-wall behind him.

A cry of infuriation tears from his lips, before an agonizing blow connects to his face.

Blinded and reeling from the hit, he strikes out with his arm but hits no one, as someone wrenches his hands behind his back.

The next exchanges were rapid fire, so much so he hardly knows what is occurring as handcuffs are clamped on to his wrists.

"Stay away from her!"

"Arrest him!

A tall, imposing man dressed in the crown's colors, now stands before him, reading from parchment.

"Minister, by royal decree, I hereby relieve you of your duties..."

Frollo snarls and spits in return, protesting against the charges. He does not hear the rest of the attendant's pompous words, for he instead attempts to fight his way out of their grasps, only for more men to hold him down.

His gaze snaps up to the very cause of his downfall.

The gypsy girl is pulled into an intimate embrace, with the Captain. She trembles, oh; the witch is such a good pretender, feigning her innocence.

"Have you all gone mad?!" Frollo bellows, deep voice echoing in the high rafters above as he is dragged away by the very men who once feared him.

Not one soldier speaks to the ranting, raving man that fights and struggles against his arms.

As he is dragged down the stairs, Esmeralda clings to Phoebus, trembling.

Quasimodo slowly takes her hand. "Esmeralda, it's okay, you're safe."

No response.

"He's being arrested. The king sent out a decree that he'll be imprisoned. He won't hurt you again," the hunchback says, gripping at her trembling hand.

_I saved him_, Esmeralda thinks, and disgust fills her to the brim.

"Esmeralda? Esmeralda?!"

_Why did I save him?_

Both Phoebus and Quasimodo turn to the pale, quivering woman, concern etched on their faces.

"Are you all right?"

Esmeralda never answers their question, clinging onto them.

As one woman barely speaks to her rescuers, a man below bellows curses at his sudden enemies.

While one is saved, the other is damned.

And yet both worlds now shatter, irreparably damaged by the fire that once burned in the square.

xxx


	2. Chapter 1

Night falls quickly upon the city of Notre Dame. As the solitary rider plunges through the inky black night, he pulls his cloak tighter around his form, eyeing the streets warily.

The hollow, jarring sound of the steed's hoof-beats echoes down alleyways and streets. But the stillness of the night is interrupted by the distinct, rolling sound of thunder. _Storm's coming in_, the rider thinks, as the first drops of rain splatter against his cloak.

Soon, the cobblestones are slick with rainwater, as the clouds empty their contents onto Paris. The rabble-rousers, the prostitutes, the beggars, the crooks... all of them retreat from their usual spots into shaded alcoves, away from the stinging rain.

A bolt of lightning splits the sky, temporarily blinding all who stubbornly refuse to hurry inside. The man's grip on the reins tightened, and he quickly crosses himself. Tonight was no night to be outside, but he did have orders to follow. Orders that must be followed, or else it will be his head on the line.

Finally, after turning yet another winding corner with bated breath, the man is greeted by the imposing Palace of Justice. He audibly gulps as his eyes look up at the sharp, unforgiving spires, the harsh, sharp angles of the edifice. He rides forward to the first gate, guarded by two... well, the polite word is soldier, but the more adept word would probably be brute.

"Good evening. I am Lord Bonhomme, head attendant to his majesty. I was told that I would be expected," he says over the pouring rain.

The two men nod, and unlock the gate. "Dismount your horse, we shall bring it to the stables," one of them says curtly.

Lord Bonhomme uneasily slides off the beast, legs wobbling. He truly despises riding. He much prefers more sedate activities.

He is lead by one of the guards deeper into the entrance tunnel. Torches have been lit, but only cast a scant amount of light in the passageway.

"Has the minister been deposed?" Lord Bonhomme asks in a business-like tone.

"Yes sir. Minister Duchamps left early this morning. His quarters were cleaned out," the man says.

Bonhomme nods. "Right then. Is he... has _he_ been informed?" he says in a hushed voice.

The soldier halts, a frown appearing on his face. He turns to Bonhomme, brow knit in worry. "We have not sir. We were told by an earlier message to not let the prisoner know," he says carefully.

Bonhomme chews on the inside of his cheek. With a sudden movement of his hand, he claps the soldier, _poor nervous youth_, on his shoulder. "Well then. I will inform him then."

The soldier leads him to the first cell, and fetches a ring of keys from his belt. Bonhomme notices how the man's fingers' tremble as he inserts the key into the lock, opening the door with a heavy metallic grinding noise.

Bonhomme's nose twitches as the smell of blood, urine, and God knows what else, enter the corridor. Fighting the urge to gag, he enters the dimly lit room, where a solitary torch now burns.

A man hangs from the ceiling, arms stretched high over his body, wrists bound by metal shackles. His feet, bloody and rubbed raw, support his weight poorly. He can barely stand without the aid of the chain that binds him to the scaffolding.

He reeks of sweat and blood. Judging by the dark, dried blood that once seeped through his shirt, his wounds stretch from his back to his torso.

His head is lowered, shaggy gray hair matted and dirty.

He hadn't woken up from his sleep when Bonhomme opened the door. No. It is when Bonhomme steps closer to the skeletal man hanging on the scaffolding that his form convulses.

The man raises his head, and dark, glittering eyes meet his gaze. But Bonhomme feels a cold chill seep into his bones, not from the dank cold of the dungeon.

It was from the sheer, raw emotion, the anger that burns in his eyes like fire.

"Claude Frollo."

Xxx

Frollo blinks the blurry haze of sleep, only to see the man quickly leave the room. Pain, dull, constant pain reverberates in his bones as he attempts to move, only to feel the manacles once more chafe against his bleeding wrists.

He expects the lash to come down again. Or a new, metal trap of torture to be bound to his feet, his hands, his arms... whatever limb is ordered today. That's what consistently occurred, each day, for an eternity, when people came into his cell.

Soldiers come in once more, and he involuntarily tenses, although, from previous experience, tensing caused a much greater amount of agony on his end. He sets his jaw, too stubborn to close his eyes. He wants to see just what these brutes do to him.

Except... when the soldier comes toward him... there is no article of agony within his grasp. The other crosses behind, and Frollo's entire being prickles. Would they simply beat him with fists now? Like savages? Was that the new part of his punishment?

But he only feels a pair of hands move tentatively to the manacles which enclose his wrists. And with a small click, he falls until his bony knees slam down on the ground.

The soldiers move toward him to hoist him up, but Frollo growls, "No." It seems even after his personal hell, he could not let anyone, let alone the very men who had turned on him, assist him.

His arms feel so heavy, after spending so long suspended in air. He stifles a hiss of pain as he adjusts himself to rise from the ground, old scabs breaking as the lash-marks of yesterday, the day before that, of last week, were pulled by scant muscle and bone.

He rises to a kneeling position, head spinning. With much effort, he steps onto one foot... then two... slowly rising, berating his own weakness. His feet feel like liquid, while his limbs feel like solid, ungainly stone.

The soldiers watches as the former minister of justice struggles to stand, their eyes shifting away. Frollo's dark eyes flash wildly. What on earth was going on? Were they moving him to a different cell? _One more vile perhaps._

He staggers to his feet, gripping the sides of his dirty, thin breeches to anchor himself. The soldiers then flank him on either side, regarding him with suspicion. He nearly scoffs aloud. _Even if I were to run, who's to say I would last five minutes out in Paris in this state?_ He thinks darkly.

He attempts to walk normally, only to nearly gasp in pain as he presses his raw soles down onto the ground. His feet had been broken, but put together with some care. Still, they feel the old pains, the old, deep bruises that resulted from that particular session.

He is hobbling. It is pitiful. He nearly snarls in frustration when he stumbles yet again, nearly crashing down onto the cold flagstones. He grits his teeth. He needs to stay standing.

He struggles to step down the hall, each step a herculean labor. Everything aches. Each movement ignites a new host of maladies. Bruises, lashings, malnutrition. All caused him pain now.

He is led to the south stairwell. He schools his face to be passive, but inwardly, he is baffled. Why would they take him out of the dungeons?

After an eternity of hobbling like an invalid, he is taken to his... well, what _used to be _his... main study. He is suddenly paralyzed as his eyes flicker over the familiar cedar wood, the worn, yet sturdy chair. The clean surface of the desk is clear of any debris, any of the old parchments and tomes that he had insisted on making a permanent habitation on the desk. Everything was orderly of course, he was too fastidious to ever be less than perfect.

He is not a nostalgic man. In fact, he preferred to eliminate memories of the past in its entirety. But at that moment, such an intense wave of wistfulness crashes over him, so powerful, that his very legs tremble. Was that really him, the man that had once sat at that chair, hunched over mountains of erudite papers? Were these his own objects, did his scarred and chafed hands really touch the smooth lacquer of this desk?

He is silent, his face set grimly. _How far the mighty have fallen, _he thinks hollowly.

He hears a rustle behind him, one that causes him to jerk his head to see the stranger who had visited his cell. He stands awkwardly, as if unsure of himself. But from the color of his garments, he is a man of most high purpose. A man from the crown.

"Good evening. I had the servants prepare a meal. Would you please sit, and we may discuss some matters?" the man says, motioning to the small dining area, usually used for meetings with other magistrates. Frollo doesn't nod, doesn't refuse either. He simply moves forward, his dark eyes flashing at the stranger beneath harshly knitted brows.

He nearly collapses in the chair, then has to stifle a groan of agony as yet another of the hundreds of lacerations reopen. He grits his teeth. Whatever the man wishes to discuss, it would be done properly. Not with him wincing and squirming about like some criminal.

He sits stiffly, back still ramrod straight despite his obvious discomfort. _Old habits never die_, he thinks offhandedly, as he looked down at his plate.

Instead of bread and water, meat and mutton, soup has been placed before him. His mouth involuntarily waters. How long had it been since he had seen food like this? How long had he been in the dark, slurping at grey, tasteless trash, trash that could hardly be considered food?

The animalistic instinct, to devour, to rip into the leg of mutton like a low beast nearly overwhelms him. Instead, he carefully picks up the knife and fork, damning his own fingers for trembling. With slow, _agonizingly_ slow, movements, he slices through the meat, nearly cursing at how slow the process is when his stomach twirls painfully with hunger.

Bonhomme watches the man eat, his own face probably one of concern. The man is so thin. He had heard rumors of the former minister's punishment... but... seeing it was a much different experience.

Frollo can feel the stranger's eyes upon him. He feels like a wild animal, cornered, captive, exposed to an ogling audience. He is desperate to eat, to swallow the food whole... but he refuses to be an animal before a civilized guest.

"You said you wished to discuss something with me?" he remarks, his voice gravelly, yet harsh on the man's ears.

Bonhomme gulps. "Right. My name is Lord Bonhomme, I'm an attendant of the king."

Frollo is silent. The man obviously knew who _he_ was. _Claude Frollo. Former Minister. Soldier's whipping post._ What was the point of introducing himself? Instead he peers at him, his face as still and harsh as stone.

Frollo's silence must have unnerved the man, for he rushes through his statements in a solitary exhale of air:

"As you know, you were found guilty of abusing your position as minister, and have been serving your punishment, which to date is life in prison..."

Frollo says nothing.

Bonhomme feels sweat bead on his brow. "In light of recent events, however, his majesty King Charles VII, is most mercifully granting you a pardon, under certain conditions."

It was then that the man's head jerks up, and that he nearly drops his own fork. Frollo's eyes shine with true mystification. A pardon? Freedom from this earthly hell? His heart races with the elusive emotion of hope.

But his victory soon feels like a façade. What if this were some trick? Why ever would he be released? Choosing his words carefully, Frollo says, "Conditions?"

Bonhomme quickly nods. "You would be reinstated as minister. But you would be barred from leaving Paris, at any point, nor would you be able to come to his majesty's court. At this point in time, your position is tentative. You will be advised by one of the king's attendants-that's me, by the way," he adds sheepishly.

When Frollo still doesn't respond, Bonhomme continues. "You will be advised by me about all matters. And, his majesty adds that if there are anymore... violations made... your previous sentence will be reinstated, with no chance of pardon. Is this... clear?" Bonhomme says hesitantly.

Frollo is shocked. Absolutely paralyzed with the surreal quality of this situation. He had to have gone mad in his cell to be imagining this very exchange.

He tries to stifle his own relief. He needs to be logical. He keeps his stone-like mask upon his face, refusing to show the emotions of desperate joy that threaten to pour from his self.

"This... is a most... advantageous proposition, one that I am most grateful to be offered. Might I inquire as to why the king is willing to reinstate me to my position?" he asks in a calculative manner

Usually when men were told of their freedom, their reaction was tears of joy, relief, happiness. But Claude Frollo wasn't most men, as Bonhomme could clearly ascertain. Bonhomme clears his throat, Frollo's question clearly treading on delicate territory.

"It seemed there were some... inherent difficulties of your post which your successor was not as adept at handling," he says.

Frollo leaned back in his chair, looking every bit like the noble he once was. Ah. There it was. Incompetence on the part of his successor. He cannot help but feel smug that in this political quagmire called Paris, he is not so easily disposed of.

A cruel, cold smile spread on Frollo's face, one that made Bonhomme's face pale. The former tyrant shifts his eyes up to the attendant. "It seems as if I will accept this most gratifying offer," Frollo says slyly.

Bonhomme bobs his head once, reminding Frollo of an agitated hen. "Right. Well then, if you will please sign this document," he said, plucking a scroll from his robes.

xxx

The next hours fly by in a dizzying, surreal array of color and sound. Snatches of Bonhomme's stammering speeches ingrain themselves in his mind, while others drift in and out, passing by as fleetingly as clouds.

He is later taken up to his bedroom. Standing within the room, he feels a twinge of hatred. Someone else, an incompetent, blundering fool, had used these chambers. His chambers. It was most good that the successor was gone, else Frollo strangle the man himself for looking at, let alone sleeping, in his room.

He trudges over the carpet, exhaustion seeping into his bones. He feels so dirty, so soiled, next to the pristine finery around him.

The fire is lit, and physical warmth seeps into him. But a residual inward coldness still remains. When he closes his eyes, he can still see the four walls of that cell, can taste the metallic tang of blood on his tongue from the countless times he had gnashed his teeth to keep from crying out in pain. When he opens his eyes, he is back, back in his sanctuary, with opulence lining the walls.

He shuffles his way to the dresser, opening the doors. His old clothes have been placed neatly into the drawers. They had been planning for his return for some time.

Instead of feeling triumphant, he feels empty though. Tired. Decrepit.

With laborious movements, he strips himself of his dirty prisoner garb. He looks down at the bloodstains, the dirt, the encrusted sweat that layered the garb, and feels repulsed.

With a small toss, the clothes land into the roaring fire, curling, disintegrating into ash.

Shouldering on his night shirt, he winces as old lash wounds sting. But he was too tired to bind his wounds tonight, too tired to think anymore.

He collapses onto his bed, vanishing into darkness as soon as his head sinks into the pillow.

xxx

Thanks for reading! Please review if you want! :) -Cgal


	3. Chapter 2

_Fire. Heat. Unbearable heat. _

_He was to fall towards that blaze that inferno, Notre Dame herself crumbling, sacrificing parts of herself to damn him to the fiery blazes of hell. _

_Then, a hand reaches out to steady him. To quite literally pull him from the abyss. A small, feminine hand. _

_The temptress yanked, and he fell forward atop her, onto his small captive. His dark eyes pored her beautiful face, her bewitching features. Her eyes widen in fear, as the magnitude of her actions crashes upon her. _

_And Frollo can do nothing but stare, but let his sin control his actions. And he crushes her lips to his in a fierce battle of dominance..._

Frollo's eyes shoot open and he has to physically grip the covers in order to remind himself where he is. He was not on the bell-tower, vengeance in his veins. He was not in the dungeons awaiting another beating.

_You are reinstated. You have been pardoned by his majesty, and have been given some freedom. You are no longer a prisoner,_ he mechanically lists in his mind. Like he once did with battle drills, logically sorting out his thoughts in his mind assists him in assimilating such things into his system. And now more than ever, when all things felt unreal... it was entirely necessary to painstakingly catalogue each detail he knew...or else...

Or else he would think himself mad.

Sunlight streams in through the windows, creating such a blissful scene in his chambers. Everything is silence, as if the world has vanished around his bedroom. The current atmosphere does not assist his sanity. In fact, it makes him doubt it even more. How could he possibly be in such a peaceful realm, when everything before had been pain?

It was when he moved from the bed, when those old stings and pains returned, that he felt more grounded. There was the pain; there was the agony he knew. Everything is much more tangible.

He was told to sleep, regain his strength. But at this moment, the realm of sleep does not hold as much peace as he originally thought. He grimly smiles. For so long, he had desired a full night of sleep in his own bed, not hanging from the ceiling. And now, when he finally receives such luxuries... now was when sleep became rife with... dreams. Memories.

Frollo shut his eyes, mentally forcing the memories back. No, he could not dwell on the past, could not dwell on the remembrances that now haunted his sleep. He needed to move on. To forget. To sentence that part of his past to languish in utter oblivion.

So instead of remembering her face, of seeing her eyes, he shuffles lamely to the washroom. Heated water already had been placed there, a sign that the servants have not lost their dutiful obedience to their true lord and master. The grim smile returns. Old habits die hard, even for the staff.

He carefully shrugs off the nightshirt, repulsed when he sees more bloodstains dappling the inside of the garment. Frollo crosses to the bath, crossing in front of the mirror.

He turns to see a corpse staring back. A living corpse. His dark eyes peer at the figure in the mirror, unrecognizable to him. He couldn't be that man the mirror. Did not have the shaggy, unkempt hair that fell from his head wildly like straw, did not have the purple green bruises mottling his body. That could not be his own ribcage jutting out from his sallow skin, nor his own skin, cut to ribbons by the whip.

He stares at the man, refusing to believe it is his own self. Repulsion, disgust fills his frame, and the man's nostrils flare. What was this disgusting creature before him? It could not be man, for its eyes were too wild, too inclined of lower, base actions. But no beast, no beast he had ever seen before, could be so stooped, yet so unbending, pitiful, yet terrifying.

Frollo slowly turns from the mirror, and steps into the bath, audibly crying out in agony as his wounds burned in the hot water. As he sinks down into the bath, he closes his eyes, wishing he could be in blissful oblivion.

Xxx

After shaving, clipping his hair, and binding his wounds, Claude Frollo can almost look in the mirror and say he is human. Almost, because he still sees how sickly he looks, how utterly diminished he is.

Scowling at his own reflection, Frollo put on his robes, donning the garb of so long ago. He freezes for a brief moment, staring at his reflection. He suddenly feels so... unworthy of the stately garb.

_Justice must be wrought out by men, not by animals,_ he had once said so imperiously. Now it seems that the monster must cling to his robes for dear life, to stay out of the hellish pit whence he came.

At least he had the good sense to gain some medical knowledge during his youth. He loathes when other people touched him, and to be at the mercy of a quack while he was at his weakest sickens him.

He is habitually fastidious in his appearance. So the sight of his sallow, skull-like face hovering above the impeccable robes was one to make him sigh in irritation. He did not want to be some oddity on display for the court. He already would be attacked on all sides for his return. He had no friends, as proved by how his supposed allies distanced themselves from him as soon as he was arrested by the guard that night on the bell-tower.

His stomach suddenly ached. It seemed he could not consume enough, he was so hungry.

With a parting glance at the hollow man staring at him, he departs from his chambers.

xxx

When he enters his study, he is greeted by the sight of Bonhomme at his post, ready for orders.

"Minister Frollo! I trust you slept well?" he says, giving him a careful smile.

Frollo wishes to scoff. Instead, he says, "Very well."

"Are you sure you wish to resume so soon, minister? I understand if you need a few days to recover," Bonhomme says.

Whatever kindness that is implied in his tone is immediately discarded by the judge. He quickly decimates any sort of belief that this man is to be trusted. He had placed a minute amount of faith in a select few before... the _incident_, and each one of them betrayed him at the trial, quick to testify against him.

"I see no point. The king did not pardon me so I may luxuriate in my chambers and fall victim to sloth," he says sharply.

Bonhomme gives another bobbing nod. "Right then."

There was that phrase again. _Right then._ Probably an indicator of the man's anxiety. Frollo files away that conjecture for when knowing the attendant's nervous habits may prove useful.

He crosses past the man, and pulls out his chair. Slowly, he eases himself down at his desk, shooting a hostile stare at Bonhomme. The message is clear. Move or suffer.

Bonhomme bends to his will... for now. He soon sinks uneasily into the chair across from Frollo's desk, eyeing the minister with parchment and quill in hand.

Frollo feels a surge of indignation at seeing the quill and paper. He had fought and schemed his way to the apex of Parisian society, only to be reduced to an apprentice who must be monitored at all times. He bites back a hostile comment, choosing instead to glare down at the first report laid upon _his _desk.

As he scans over the parchment, he is appalled at the utter lack of logic his predecessor had. No night guards? Prostitution rampant? The city's borders left unattended? Instantly, fury rises within him. Imbecile! They had chosen an absolute imbecile to replace him, to take his precious city and soil it further into filth.

"Quite abysmal indeed. Tell me. Who was responsible for monitoring this... invalid's actions?" he says harshly. Bonhomme frowned in response.

"To be quite frank minister, you never had such monitoring in your station. We thought... we should continue it with your successor."

Frollo resists the urge the gnash his teeth. His precious city, which he had labored over to reduce the rabble and crime... has fallen victim to those exact forces to a worse extent.

"Well then. First order of business. The city borders must be contained. I need the captain of the guard in here at once. Also, seeing as there are a grave amount of inconsistencies in enforcement behavior, all the troops must be evaluated immediately," he said. Such a look of grim determination appears on his face, that Bonhomme himself feared him.

Frollo rises. He needs to settle into his old routine. Fit back into the life that was torn from him. So, with not a shred of restraint, he barks out, "Boy! In here, now!"

The soldier guarding his chambers is barely older than fifteen and stammers, "Y-yes sir?"

"Summon the captain of the guard."

The youth nods. "Yes sir." Then he departs.

Bonhomme all the while scribbled notes, and the scratching noise of quill on parchment suddenly grates against Frollo's ears, a constant reminder of his failings. Gritting his teeth, Frollo turns back to the desk, reading over the reports.

"Tell me now, Bonhomme. Had my predecessor infiltrated the Court of Miracles? Is that viper's nest disassembled?" he drones, attempting to find the very thing he asked in the numerous sheets of parchment.

He only hears silence. Frollo looks up. "Would you answer the question?" he says dryly.

"I did. You weren't looking. No. The Court of Miracles is still... there," Bonhomme says.

Frollo's eyes widen in shock... then narrow. How could the blundering fool not even have the sense to take apart the hub of criminal activity? Had the world gone mad? "Excuse me?" he says softly yet dangerously.

Bonhomme's brow knit together. Although fearful of the minister, he did hold some power over him. "After your exile, the king thought it best to allow the gypsies to remain in the Court of Miracles. There was no other option to house them, seeing as most innkeepers still harbor resentment. We attempted to affix them in homes, but even sanctions were not enough to change a significant portion of the population's minds. There was no other option," he repeats.

Frollo stands up quickly, hands tense upon his desk. "No other option? Bonhomme, do you realize what happens in the Court of Miracles?"

The attendant was silent. Frollo turns to the adjoining window to the balcony, eyes gazing down to the streets of Paris. For a moment, he simply stares, attempting to calm down the rising bile in his throat, the utter disgust at the stupidity of these men.

"Illegal sale of stolen goods. Constant drinking. Gambling. Prostitution. The Court of Miracles is hidden away enough that the gypsies believe they are outside the jurisdiction of the law. A very dangerous prospect indeed." He turns to Bonhomme, face hardened. "Now, at least assure me now that the Court of Miracles has at least been patrolled by soldiers."

Bonhomme's continued silence affirms the worst. Frollo's face twists into one of absolute loathing. "My word," he swears, fists clenching.

"We attempted to send guards... but many came up harassed. Injured. They didn't talk about what had happened." He adds quickly.

"They are soldiers, not farmers! If they wished to be _un-_harassed they should have stayed in the fields!" he spits out with absolute derision.

In a flurry of movement, Frollo crosses to Bonhomme, hands crossed behind him, looking all the while like a militant soldier of the law. His mind works through the issue.

"If they have no other place in Paris, perhaps they should... emigrate," he says with a casual flick of his hand.

Bonhomme's eyes widen. "Frollo, you cannot be serious." Well, if he was, the man had to be mad then.

Frollo turns to him, that joyless smirk upon his lips. "I am here to mend your city, sire. The Court of Miracles is the poisonous cancer that has rooted itself in Paris's body. And what happens to cancers?"

Bonhomme didn't say anything. With that slow simpering smile, Frollo says, "They will be cut away."

Turning rapidly from him, it occurs to Frollo he may need to use a more diplomatic method. Just in case his position wasn't entirely secure.

"The gypsies have griped since the beginning of their habitation in Paris of the people's disrespect. A change in venue would benefit both us and them," he says.

"Frollo, what you suggest simply cannot be done."

"How is the work of justice, work according to God's laws, not able to be done? Need I remind you, of the words of Mark." With that grim, hardened face, Frollo continues, deeply intoning his words. "If your hand causes you to sin, cut it off. It's better to enter eternal life with only one hand than to go into the unquenchable fires of hell with two hands.'"

Bonhomme shifts awkwardly in his seat. He had heard rumors of the minister's piousness. And experiencing it firsthand was... well, some may say impressive. Others may say terrifying.

So it is with some hesitation that Bonhomme then remarked, "Unfortunately, while what you suggest is most noble, it is physically impossible to force out all the gypsies. The manpower and monetary funds needed are simply too scant for such an endeavor. The king wishes his chest to remain bountiful for times of need. Your mission, Frollo, while a service, is hardly a necessary option."

Silence falls onto both men as each regards the other with wary suspicion. Frollo has to prevent himself from lashing out at the man. For one of the first times in his political career, Frollo had been refused. Refused in an endeavor to save his beloved Paris.

But to object would mean a foray back into the pit of despair. And what good could come of that?

So he chooses to be stoic, let no emotion appear in his eyes. He instantly remembers his early years in this position, as a young man, appeasing others to finally reach the peak.

He would bide his time. And Bonhomme would relent to his wishes. The man simply needed... a more diplomatic approach.

"If these are the king's wishes, I have no choice to obey," he says, and he notices how Bonhomme breathes a sigh of relief.

"Right then," Bonhomme says, and a knock is heard at the door.

"Enter," Frollo drawls, and the youth comes back in... followed by Phoebus de Chateaupers.

Frollo has to stifle himself from yelling an oath of frustration. No. This was his captain of the guard? The man who willingly disobeyed orders?  
>Judging by the way the Captain's eyes widen, the man had not been expecting him to be here.<p>

Phoebus is silent for a moment, and Frollo uses the opportunity to dismiss the youth. If the captain starts shooting off his mouth... he does not want the lower ranks to get any unsavory ideas.

When Phoebus finally finds his voice again, he meets the famed icy stare of Judge Claude Frollo. "I had heard... rumors that you were back. But I never expected to see you behind that desk again," he said, his voice even but still betraying some shock.

"Ah. Well, the means behind my return are of no matter to you Captain. I will not ask how a man who was to be beheaded for insubordination is now standing before me, head intact and armor restored. And in return," he adds in a lilting voice. "...you will not ask of my path," he says.

Phoebus is absolutely shocked, too shocked to even raise his voice in outrage. Bonhomme seizes the opportunity and bounds from his seat to put himself in between the two men.

"Good morning, Captain Phoebus. Lord Nicholas Bonhomme, attendant to his majesty King Charles VII," he says, with a perfunctory bow that Phoebus mechanically mirrors.

"Right then. Shall we begin?" Bonhomme said, eyes shifting nervously between the two of them.

Frollo crosses behind his desk and sinks into his seat, eyes never leaving the blonde brute's face. A host of unpleasant memories come flooding back, ones that set his teeth on edge. Memories of his betrayal and insubordination. _Memories of... her fickle favor. Don't think about that, for God's sakes!_ He chastises himself, clenching his fist so tightly the nails dig sharply into his palms. He could not feel... this covetous emotion... envy for what the captain possessed.

_As soon as she had wriggled out of his grasp, she flung herself in his arms, his own prize slipping from his grasp so easily. _The memory is brief only a few seconds. But he crushes it down, down into the place where such loathsome visions resided.

Business. He needs to focus. For a moment, he debates with himself on whether or not to dismiss the man. Starting over would be most difficult with his former betrayer in a position of power.

Except... from the look of respect in Bonhomme's eyes, Phoebus de Chateaupers, at least in this era of administration, is valuable. And seeing as Bonhomme was so vocal about the king's preferences before... Frollo could not see how he would be able to rid himself of the man.

So he simply remained silent, and went about with business with restrained derision.

"From these reports, Captain, it seems the troops have been most unproductive," he begins.

Phoebus tries to be passive, but his temper was returning. Frollo can sense it in the air. Yet he continues.

"From now on, the standards of the guard must be elevated. I wish for you to begin a mandatory evaluation, which I will oversee. If a man so much as puts forward an average performance, he will be demoted."

"And what are these standards that my men will be evaluated? Simply... your own?" he says, unable to keep the sarcasm from entering his voice.

Frollo simply stares into the Captain's face, restraining the mercurial anger that burns deep within. His gaze flickers to Bonhomme. From the guarded, and reproachful look in his eyes, it is clear that Frollo is to not lurch over and throttle the captain into the ground. It had only been only been mere minutes, and already Frollo desired the attendant to choke to death on his own quill and parchment. Had he been alone, Frollo would have sent the captain to be given at least twenty-five lashes for such a disrespectful comment.

How could it be that he was given so much power, and yet had so little simultaneously?

"Yes. As minister, it is my duty, given by the crown itself, to hold my subordinates to the standards I see fit. You will obey, Captain. And you will commence the evaluation this afternoon, no later than noon." He says, eyes cold.

The Captain of the Guard simply stand there dumbly, mouth opening and closing. His face turns beet red, betraying the absolute anger in his veins.

But, Frollo is pleased to see, that after a few moments, the old behavior instilled by years of militant battle training at last had their effect. "Yes sir." He says roughly.

"Good then. On your way Captain. There is so much to do before we begin."

"Begin what sir?" Phoebus asks, already dreading the answer.

Looking at him squarely in the face, the reinstated minister Frollo drawls, "Begin the process of purifying Paris."

Xxx

Frollo spent the next week navigating the bureaucratic elements of his return. Stacks of parchment were signed; seals were made; and certain members of the troops were... _dismissed _quite suddenly.

Frollo hadn't ventured out into Paris. Not yet. He chooses to remain in the sanctuary of the Palace of Justice. While he argued it was for the sake of his work, that there simply was too much paperwork to even think of leaving... a part of him, a small, yet vocal, part of him, was uneager to venture out into a city which had changed quite a great deal since his... _departure_. Gypsies running amok? Soldiers abandoning their posts? Prostitutes lining the alleyways in the day? Each new discovery left the minister repulsed.

There was a sick sense of pride in that it had been due to his departure that the city had fallen so deeply into sin.

But, finally, after days on end of Bonhomme's exceptional meddling he had been pushed to the brink. Frollo rose from his seat. "I think... I shall ride into the city. See just how many issues have arose for myself," Frollo says, attempting to be casual.

But Bonhomme's eyes widen. "Minister... if... if that's what you wish... but... I have to request the Captain of the Guard ride with you. I have no doubt that you will stay sir... it's just that the Crown has certain, ah, stipulations."

Frollo expects just as much. To be treated like a prisoner, not a liberated man. He masks his scorn of the entire situation effortlessly. "Well then, I shall go to the stables. I expect the Captain to be there immediately. Tell him the Minister requests a patrol." He says dryly. With that comment, he exits the room, giving his orders to the stammering youth guarding his door once more.

Xxx

As Frollo carefully steps outside, he tries to mentally adjust himself. He could not appear weak, stumbling out like some ungainly creature into the sun. Not in front of the very troops he struggles to control.

The dark, stone hall of the Palace of Justice was gated off, leading into the field where the stables were. The two guards outside the gates turn, and instantly pale as he descends down the hall, looking very much like the ghost of their nightmares.

"Open the gate," Frollo ordered.

Without delay, one of the men unlocks it, then swings the creaking metal open. With only a short, curt nod as a response, Frollo steps outside the walls of his beloved Palace.

The grounds were as he remembered them. Orderly, perhaps a little too dry. The crunch of the beaten soil beneath his feet suddenly overwhelms him, bringing back memories, of both his boyhood and later years. He has to fight the urge to kneel, dirty his robes and place his fingers through the grainy land.

Instead, he drives on to the stables. His horse, he had been told, is still present. The inky black steed, that terrifying monster had apparently been unruly to say the least. The beast had not let anyone else but his true master ride him, so was in fact, useless.

If Frollo had been confronted with such an issue, he would have put the beast out of its misery. It took up space, it was a nuisance to put up with.

But... the previous minister was much more of a coward in that respect. And for once, Frollo is grateful for the nameless man's weak sensitivities.

Frollo enters the stable, the smell of dry hay and the sweat of beasts meeting his nostrils. The scent is familiar, routine. Frollo breathes it in, allowing himself a moment of simple stillness in the relatively peaceful place. It was here he had retreated as a youth, away from the stifling lectures of his father. It was here he had worked and toiled in the summers. It was here that after a long day of chasing the guilty through the streets that he could finally relent.

The place is silent, other than the soft noises of animals nickering and settling into their spaces. After the flurry of the previous week, with constant interruptions... it is a kind of peace that was most welcome.

He shakes off that oddly comforting feeling, setting about to do his business. With slow, measured steps, he walks a familiar beaten path, from the entrance, down past the other stalls, to the larger one at the end. His horse finally comes into view, still the black fearsome creature it had been trained to be.

The beast lets out a snort, a sign of aggression. Giving the beast a wry smirk, Frollo reaches towards the opposite wall, where his reins and saddle still hung. Usually, he would command one of the stable-boys, poor, wretched youths, to saddle the beast for him.

But... today was much different than the days of old, wasn't it?

He places a palm out towards the beast... and lets out a solitary, shrill whistle.

The beast's tense posture relaxes, melting away at the sound of his true master's call. Frollo's lips quirk upwards as he carefully pats the beasts flanks, using slow, careful strokes usually reserved for grooming.

Placing his hand in front of the horse's nostrils, Frollo lets the beast smell him, become reacquainted. A small shudder passes through the horse's muscles, entirely felt by Frollo's left hand upon the beast's flank.

With slow, deliberate movements meant to help, not harm, Frollo placed the saddle and reins upon his beast. "You've gotten fat. Can't afford that in the middle of such troubled times," Frollo murmurs, patting the beast.

Unaware of the insult, the horse softly whinnies, a sound of contentment.

With gentle, practiced movements, Frollo leads the creature out of its stall. With a fluid movement of his palm, he strokes its mane, calming any agitation.

It is then Frollo realizes just how long his dutiful Captain was taking. Suddenly irritated, he scowls, calling over one of the servants sharply.

"Where is the good Captain Phoebus?" he says sardonically, in a low dangerous voice.

The boy gulps. "He... he's coming sir was just a little late," he stammers.

It was then the gallant, gold-armored Phoebus chose to make his appearance.

"Captain," Frollo says sharply, skipping any sort of greeting.

"Sir?" Phoebus said mechanically.

"Would you please enlighten the both of us how you could possibly be late, when just the previous morning, I was adamant about the punctuality of the troops?" he drawls, eyes narrowing.

Phoebus isn't intimidated; instead, without missing a beat, he says, "My wife had a false alarm. We thought she was in labor, it really was just stomach pains. My apologies."

Frollo suddenly feels as if he were slammed in the chest. _Wife?_ A vision of Esmeralda, running, then clinging on to the Captain that day on the bell-tower springs into his mind, unwanted and vexing. He feels as if he couldn't breathe. Anger spikes in his veins, hot and thick, and with a harsh staccato snarl, Frollo says, "That is hardly any reason!"

Both Phoebus and the stable-boy blink, mostly confused by the outburst. Frollo does not notice. Instead he is temporarily blinded by visions of her. _Visions of her in white. Visions of her with that brainless titan in between her legs. Visions of her rounded with his child, body distorted by the Captain's seed. _

The mental images flood him in waves, wracking his body to the point where he physically cannot breathe normally. The temptation to throw the captain to the ground, beat him into submission is so strong, he can already see himself in his mind's eye lurching forward.

"Minister? Minister Frollo?"

The small voice wrenches him back to reality. And suddenly, he is in the present, staring at a baffled Captain and frightened youth. The youth had spoken, quivering in absolute terror.

Frollo then realizes just how... wrong everything felt. He couldn't... he couldn't feel this anger, this rage that threatened to burn all in its path. No. He has no right to. She was his wife? Good riddance to a lying, manipulative whore. Perhaps she would cuck-hold the captain, at last punish him for his disobedience. And then, he would throw her to the streets, shame the whore for what she was.

He shouldn't feel this... possessive envy. The gnawing sensation burrowing within his gut, that anger which flares each time the Captain moves. He shouldn't feel like he has some claim to her, when she was obviously no prize to be claimed in the first place.

His face hardens, and he wills his body to stop clenching its fists, to stop shaking with rage. "In the future Captain..." he begins, his voice still rough. He blinks, shutting his eyes momentarily to compose his self. "In the future Captain, I expect you to be punctual. No matter _what_ circumstances. Are we clear?" he said, forcing his voice to be... not soft, never gentle, but certainly quieter than his maddened bark of before.

Phoebus blinks once. Twice. Frollo counts three blinks of mystification before the man answers, "Yes sir."

Frollo doesn't even nod, he can't trust his own body to make the appeasing movement. He turns back to his horse and mounts the beast.

Staring down at the still inert figures, he says in a surprisingly even tone, "Come. We have much to do. I will not be delayed by your incompetence."

With those words, he turns his horse to the entrance, bringing the beast to a trot. Trying to think of nothing but the physical act of riding, trying to fade into the simple actions.

Trying to force his telling thoughts to disappear into oblivion.

Xxx

It's their eyes that burrow into his soul.

Frollo is used to being looked at with terror, with horrified awe. But the eyes he saw now were much, much different.

The faces of the peasants at first twist in confusion. Then they pale, becoming as white as freshly fallen snow. But the eyes are certainly the most telling. Frollo sees eyes widen with absolute fear, but not the fear of before. Instead, it was the fear of men coming into contact with a ghost. For the rumors of his death, although most certainly wrong, were true to them. And if he is here, he must be a specter.

He tries to ignore the hush of the street when he rides down the winding passageways with his steed. _Silence is good. All the better to think_, he thinks.

But... this silence is unnerving, not calming.

He chooses to distract his self. "Captain, tell me, what precautions have been made against street vagrants so far?"

As the Captain listlessly rattles off the recent efforts, Frollo finds himself unfocused, eyes flickering over the various misconduct occurring. A prostitute, bold thing, propositioning a man in a side alley. A gypsy, subtly rifling through bags. A merchant selling clearly expired foodstuff.

So much... immorality. He grinds his teeth, mechanically responding, tersely giving new orders to the Captain at his side.

It was then he heard the high pealing bells of a tambourine.

In an instant, his face blanches and cold sweat breaks out on the back of his neck. _Her dance. Her sinful dance. Her red-clad body so close to him, so close to touching... those succulent lips hovering, gingerly touching his nose... and the humiliation afterward. _

He is no longer the master of his own body. Frollo pulls the reins and rides toward the sound, that maddening sound that echoes in his ears each night.

When he turns the corner, all he sees are two young gypsy brats fighting over the damnable instrument.

He can only stare for a moment... until he hears the hoof-beats of Phoebus's steed come towards him.

"Minister?" Phoebus questions, staring at the paralyzed man.

What was he supposed to say? He had once more let the wench tug on his sensibilities. She wasn't even there, for god's sakes, and she was still meddling in his affairs.

Phoebus still expectedly looks at the minister's blanched face, expecting some sort of answer.

_She wouldn't be out on the streets if she were pregnant with the Captain's child,_ Frollo reasons, his hands still clenching into fists on the reins.

"I assumed... there was rabble going on. I was mistaken," he says, and even he has to admit how pitiful the explanation is.

Phoebus's eyebrows shoot up, and his normally placid features twist into an expression of bafflement.

But the solider chooses not to push the issue. "So, you were saying, about vagrants?"

Frollo forces himself to look at the Captain, to forget the sound of those high pealing bells. To stop thinking about the way his pulse quickened, in both fear and joy, at the very sound of a commoner's instrument.

Xxx

The morning went by, thankfully, without further interruption. Routine. Order. Discipline. The familiar mantra repeats over and over in his mind as Frollo keeps driving on into the city.

As the sun begins to dip low on the horizon, Frollo rides his way into the heart of the city.

He stops the horse's even gait when Notre Dame came into view. The colossal temple to the Lord still stood, despite his actions months before. No funeral pyre stands in the square now, only gypsies attempting to sell their wares.

It is irrational, but he feels a chill in the heated air. A chill caused by his own aversion to the very statues that adorn Notre Dame herself.

Phoebus drones on, giving a rundown of all the very things he had desired to catalogue. But to his regret, only half his mind listens and files away each of the man's comments.

The other half is fixated on the bells that now rang into the square. Was Quasimodo still... there?

His own ward had betrayed him. But, if he thought about it, was it really unexpected that the weak willed boy would succumb to the witch's charms?

The only thing that was unexpected was that Frollo's own manipulations had failed catastrophically, causing the boy to lash out at his own master.

The morbid temptation to see the same scene of his absolute downfall, the bell-tower, temporarily overwhelms hm. But he soon pulls back, reminding himself to forget and move away.

Xxx

The rest of the ride was spent in mutual silence. Frollo's dark eyes peers over the citizens of Paris, feeling very much like a ghost among men.

At last, they return to the Palace of Justice. As Frollo slips back into his study with the Captain in tow, the placid, numb sensation that he had managed to construct around his self was quite violently replaced by irritation, as Lord Bonhomme stood up from his post, greeting him. Gritting his teeth to restrain the exasperated cry from flinging itself from his mouth, Frollo strides past him as if he were nothing but air.

He sits at his desk, and harshly barks out instructions for his Captain, trying to ignore the scratching sounds of the attendant's quill.

But the scratching sounds never came. Instead, Bonhomme stood from his post and claps the Captain on the shoulder, as if they were companions.

"Captain, I believe congratulations are in order for you and your lady wife," Bonhomme says, his face splitting into a smile.

Yet again, Frollo feels a surge of damnable rage. Rage isn't specific enough though, as the poisonous tendrils of _jealousy _seize his heart in a terrible vise. _Jealousy for the husband of a whore. How pathetic,_ he thinks viciously, trying to stop the clamor in his blood.

Phoebus smiles dumbly, and says, "Well, I wish I could accept it, but Fleur had a false alarm. No baby yet."

_Fleur?!_ The minister is startled from his thoughts of restraint, eyes widening. Phoebus hears the creak from Frollo's chair, and his eyes meet with the Minister's alarmed ones.

But Bonhomme remains ignorant, saying, "Ah yes. It's good to have children so soon in a marriage. I am sure the elder Lady Gondalier will be most pleased."

"At last," Phoebus quips, and Bonhomme laughs.

Frollo rises from his seat, each muscle tense. "Will you please excuse me?" he mutters, and he tears away from them, exiting into the darkened room adjacent.

His breaths are labored. Esmeralda... is not the Captain's wife. The singular fact burns in his skull, repeated over and over until the words were all that consumed him.

She was out there. She was not... his. He hates the relief that now floods his soul, hates how attached he is to her. He is disgusted by how his pulse quickens at the very realization that she is not anyone else's.

He shuts his eyes while standing at the window, attempting to block out these alarming thoughts. Of course he had thought of her in his hell on earth. How could he not, when she had been the very being that had put him there?

But while he had passed out in pain, mentally screaming her name in hatred... in other, quieter, lonelier moments, he imagined her face. Nothing else, just her serene face, peering at him. Her green eyes flashing in the darkness of his cell. Her red-lips, not smiling, but not frowning either. Simply passive.

But he was no longer in the confines of his cell. He was in civilization. He needs... he needs to not feel. To go back to the way things were, before she so violently and carelessly upset the meticulously balanced fortress that encapsulated his life.

So he shuts his eyes, no longer seeing the blood-red sunset streaking across the sky. He tries to attain numbness, to cut away the cancer rooting itself in his mind, in his soul.

Except at that moment, the Captain chooses to interrupt his moment of solitude. "You thought I was married to her, weren't you?" he says accusingly.

Frollo turns from the windowpanes, and stares at the Captain. His face is illuminated only by the sun's dying light, with half his body in absolute darkness.

Frollo's first reaction is to deny the very affliction of his soul. "To whom, Captain?"

"To Esmeralda," Phoebus says, and the very name pierces his heart more quickly than any dagger could. It was curious, that it was a name, a simple conjuration of syllables and consonants that sent an icy chill down his spine. Murderers, floggings, absolute evil; that held no fear for him. But her name...(he still did not utter it in his mind) paralyzed him incredibly.

Frollo cannot for the life of him find his own voice. So Phoebus decides to go on.

"She's gone, Frollo. She left the city months ago."

The admission is akin to ice water being thrown upon him. Frollo is rendered mute by the comment.

Frollo feels cold. Gone. She was gone. He would never set eyes upon her red-lipped smile, never see her green eyes flash in absolute defiance. His eyes glaze over as every movement of hers, every proud toss of her raven hair, every step of her bare feet against cold stone flashed before him.

Wasn't it better this way? It was. She would no longer hold his soul captive in her fiendish-_beautiful, soft, beguiling_- hands.

Why did he suddenly feel so hollow then, as if his lifeblood were sapped from his veins?

"She will no longer meddle in the affairs of justice then," he feels himself saying.

Another flash of memory. Her defiantly standing upon the stage, knife in hand crying out in a shrill voice for justice. _Stop, stop, stop!_ He thinks savagely, pushing, crushing the thoughts to the back of his skull. It alarms him just how present the witch is in his mind. Was this her spell? Tormenting him till the end of his days? How could she not be a cunning sorceress if every thought of his was of her, even when she was gone?

The minister's face is turned away, no longer facing the Captain. But he hears the Captain's next words quite clearly:

"Will that be all sir?"

He gives a curt nod, no longer trusting his own voice. He hears several steps, and the closing of the heavy door.

He exhales, trying to let go of the poisonous thoughts that had led to his downfall. Trying to breathe out the venom she had inserted in his veins.

He closes his eyes once more, and tries to become stone.

xxx

Thanks for reading! Please review if you want! -Cgal


	4. Chapter 3

_Fire. Heat. Unbearable heat._

_Esmeralda saw him. They locked eyes. He was going to fall towards the fiery pit that once claimed her life. _

_Hands, her own traitorous hands reached out to him. And his claws gripped at her. _

_And he was on top of her, pressing into her insistently, cornering her into the stone floors. She was squirming, she was screaming, no one was coming, why could no one hear her? _

_His face... oh his face was terrible. His smile seemed feral, a wild beast cornering his prey. _

_She screamed as his hands reached for her clothes._

Esmeralda jolts up from her sleep, a scream fighting its way out of her throat. Her hands claw at the ground, trying to get away, trying to save herself.

Then, a small bleating noise. Then a horse's whinny. And Esmeralda realizes where she is.

She had fallen asleep next to the river she had been following. She had sat down to rest... when sleep had overtaken on her.

Sighing in absolute frustration, Esmeralda relaxes her clenched fists, which had torn the grass from the earth.

Djali bleats again, and nuzzled next to her, his brown eyes peering up at her, as if to comfort her.

"You should've waked me," she says, her voice hoarse from screaming. She swallows, and then rubs off the dirt that now stained her hands. She had to get going. She had to move, before she became paralyzed by her own fear. Before the darkness of her own dreams completely unmotivated her to move, let alone walk.

Esmeralda pulls herself up, and moves to Skylla, the white steed that now nickers and snorts at her. She smiles as a happy memory for once enters into her mind.

_"__She's an absolute darling this one,"_ Phoebus had said, handing her the reins to the horse.

_"__You don't have to do this,"_ she protested, even though her hands had already gotten a tight grip on the reins. She was so beautiful... absolutely sweet too, judging by the tender way the mare nickered and blew air upon her hand.

Phoebus had smiled. _"She's yours. She was only going to be used for breeding in the stables. But... I feel like you two will hit it off much better than she would with a stallion,"_ he joked.

Esmeralda pats the horse's flank, and kept walking along the river. "Come on," she says softly, and Djali trudges with her, the three travelers walking along the worn path.

It isn't long until a clamoring noise meets her ears, much more manmade than the burbling sound of the river. Heart leaping in her chest, Esmeralda grips at her dagger, and looks behind her to see a cart bumping and creaking along the road.

The wagon, pulled by a hearty stallion, soon makes its way alongside her. A man and woman, dressed in threadbare clothing look down to her.

"Hello there mademoiselle! Where are you headed?" the man calls out, eyes peering at her from beneath his straw hat.

Esmeralda forces herself to relax her death grip on her dagger. "Just into Paris, monsieur," she replies.

A grin spreads on his face. "What a coincidence! So are Marg and me," he exclaims, patting the matronly woman on his left. She ducks under his hand, and pinches her husband's (Esmeralda was assuming they were married) cheek.

"Yes. We are. Now, dearie, would you like to travel with us?" Marg says abruptly.

"Oh no, I couldn't possibly. I've got my own ride," Esmeralda says, patting the horse's flank.

"Come on! We have plenty of room in here. Plus, it's dangerous for a woman to be traveling alone," Marg remarks with a sniff.

Esmeralda mulls it over quickly, not wanting to waste their time. It was true; their wagon was spacious. Plus, she feels so much more weary after her nightmares. It had been a while since she had last spoken to someone who didn't simply bleat in response.

"All right then, if it's still fine with you," Esmeralda says, gesturing to the couple.

Marg and the man vigorously nod, and with a pull of the reins, the cart slows to a stop. "Just tie your horse to the back. He's quite the beauty," Marg exclaims.

"She is," Esmeralda subtly corrects, giving her an appreciative glance as she climbs into the wagon. Still weary of the strangers, she keeps her dagger on hand, just in case. "What brings you to Paris?" Esmeralda asks.

"Looking for work with this idiot." Marg says, pointing at her husband who simply grumbles in response. Esmeralda has to stifle a giggle.

"We were farmers. But, to be quite frank, the only farming he ever managed to do was a half grown turnip," she snorts.

"Oi! We were doing fine, till this past winter!" the man protests.

Marg gives Esmeralda a wink. "Well... fine is relative. Look at the Fondaliers! They grew so much wheat they were practically givin' it away!" she cries out, smacking him on the arm.

"The Fondaliers bribed Lord Rousseau into getting more land, and you know it!" the man says, slipping into a smattering of low-voiced grumbles.

As the two argue, Esmeralda smiles to herself. There was something so familiar, so warming about their banter. As her eyes flicker over the rolling green countryside, she let Marg's shrill voice and Bruno's gruff one float over her, the sound of it somehow much more soothing than the stifling quiet of solitude.

But she hears a change in the woman's tone. Feeling a pair of eyes fixed on her, she turns to see the farmer's wife looking expectedly at her.

"I'm sorry, what did you say again? I was distracted," Esmeralda replies apologetically.

"Silly girl! I said, what brings you to Paris?"

A personal question. Esmeralda remembers a time when she wasn't wary of divulging her past with strangers.

But then again, her past hadn't been as laden with peril.

"I have family in the city. Paris was my home for the longest time..." she says carefully.

But Marg would not stop prodding. "Why did you leave?"

Her throat is suddenly dry, and yet, it's alarming how casual Esmeralda's tone became.

"I was getting stir-crazy. Needed to travel for a bit. Gypsies are quite nomadic," she says, winking at the couple. Grinning wide even as memories of ash, of his biting fingers and rasping voice, of blazing fire, flood her mind.

Marg squints at her, as if Esmeralda's life history could be discerned like some small freckle on her visage. "It was a man, wasn't it?" she says sympathetically, reaching over to pat one of Esmeralda's hands clasped at her knee.

Esmeralda has to stifle a snort. Well, sure, it had been a man. But to be quite frank... he seemed more monster than human. "No such luck, I'm afraid! I'd like to meet the man who would inspire me to go on _my _journey," she lies smoothly. There was once a time she hated lying. Now... it just feels too easy.

"Your journey? Where have you been?" she asks, eyebrows rising.

She smirks. At last, something she could talk about. "I left Paris... hmmm, close to eight months ago. Decided to just go where I pleased... followed the Seine for a while, until I decided to wander around the south... found my way to the Bay of Biscay, beautiful, never saw the ocean until then," she chatters.

"Isn't that dangerous? You silly girl, travelin' alone!" Marg gasps.

Esmeralda smiles. "Oh, we gypsies are quite adept at taking care of ourselves. Even us women," she says teasingly.

"But... you must've been lonely!"

"There's always people to meet on the road... I mean, look at us. I was simply traveling back to Paris, and now I'm talking with you two," Esmeralda replies.

There had been so many friends. More than she ever thought possible. Esmeralda knew she was naturally an effusive person, able to talk with anyone. But... she had never expected people, strangers, to be so kind.

It had been her nature to avoid others, to defend herself at the beginning of her journey. Soon, though, she had met a man, a wanderer on the road, who had given her his supper in exchange for simply talking. Then she had met a barmaid, a lovely woman from Brittany, who had chatted with her for hours at a time, about her son. She had met an aimless bookworm from a provincial town, a shepherd who loved to play the lute, a former hairdresser of the king's, and countless others.

Some were... negative. But more often than not... they were trusting of her.

She smiles warmly at her memories. But Marg's voice cuts through her aimlessness.

"Well, if you were my daughter, I wouldn't let you go wanderin' about. I suppose... do you have parents?"

"No. I was raised by my brother," she says. Instantly, she feels a surge of wistfulness. "It's been so long since I've seen him... I missed him," she admits.

"Course you did! But why did he ever let you out of his sight in the first place?" she chides, waggling her finger at her.

Esmeralda tries to brush off her piercing tone, her disapproving glare. But inwardly, memories, not necessarily pleasant ones, were rising to the surface.

_"__You can't just go! I can't allow it!"_ Clopin had said, shaking his fist.

_"__Clopin, you can't make me do anything,"_ she had shot back.

_"__Esmeralda, I'm the only family you have. That makes me in charge of you. And you're not going on some aimless wander about the French countryside! You know what's out there? Thieves. Murderers."_

_ "__There's plenty of those men here in Paris."_

Clopin had been livid. But, he knew his little sister all too well to think he could possible stop her from leaving. Esmeralda had left the next afternoon, with a worried Clopin following her as far as the city gates. They hadn't spoken a word to each other, Esmeralda still burning with absolute anger at him.

Regret fills her. She knew she had to leave. But now, she just wishes she hadn't been so angry with him in the end. Her stupid temper got the best of her.

"Well, it's getting late. I'm going to get some shuteye. We should be in Paris tomorrow morning, as long as this lug keeps on pulling along through the night," Marg says, leaning back.

She tosses her a hay filled sack. "Nighty night!" she croons, curling up in the wagon. Snores were soon heard, and Esmeralda saw Bruno struggle to contain his laughter.  
>"Snores like a pig, she does," he says quietly, grinning. She gives him a small smile and nods.<p>

"You can sleep too. And your goat's free to have some of the hay... even though I suspect he has already."

Esmeralda looks down to see Djali nibbling contentedly on straw. Biting back laughter, she pats him and murmurs, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Bruno said.

Marg's husband was much less talkative. Esmeralda listens to the creaking of the wagon, the soft sounds of the horses. Both lull her to a sleepy state.

Her eyes still warily flicker on both of them. They seem harmless enough, but you could never know with strangers. Esmeralda shifts and subtly grips her knife, hidden by her cloak. She slowly stares ahead, trying to keep awake.

Soon, however, the rhythmic creaks of the wagon rock her to a hazy, unfocused state. And before she can stop it, her eyelids drift closed, and she surrendered to exhaustion.

xxx

_He is above her, mouth twisted into an unforgiving sneer. Hands curled into wretched claws hook into her shift, twisting it tearing it. She can't move, can't even scream as he slips his claws up higher, higher..._

Esmeralda wakes with a jolt, chest heaving. Her heart-rate is so powerful, it feels as if her heart would beat its way out of her chest.

She shudders. _Just a nightmare... not real,_ she thought.

"Are you all right?"

The voice was distant. Her gaze snaps up, to see Marg staring at her, brow furrowed in concern.

Her immediate reaction is to lie. "I'm fine, just a nightmare," she says.

She doesn't feel fine. Especially since, as she now realized, they were at the gates of Paris, waiting in line for their turn. Paris. Her home. The place where she nearly died.

The nightmares were getting worse. The closer in proximity she is to the city, the more the nightmares frighten her. It was the same one, over and over again.

_Think of Clopin, Quasi, and Phoebus. Think of how happy they will be that you're home, _she thinks, forcing herself to close her eyes and take a deep breath.

She isn't calm, that would be too easy. She just feels a little more detached than anything else. As she opened her eyes again, she feels outside of her body, staring at herself in the wagon as they finally reach the guard.

She doesn't listen, entirely in her own world. That is, she doesn't listen, until the man says in a gruff voice, "Papers."

She instantly snaps back to herself. "What?" she says dumbly.

The man groans. "Papers. Give me your papers," he says exasperatedly.

Instantly she stiffens. "I've never had papers," she blurts out.

Marg and Bruno stare at her. Esmeralda clings to Djali, lips pursed. _Papers?_ "Last time I was here, I needed no papers to leave and enter the city," she explains, in her calmest, sweetest voice.

The man seems unaffected. "New policy from the minister. We check them now. And since you don't have them, we have no proof of your residence in Paris," he says, irritated.

Esmeralda feels her heart drop to the pit of her stomach. She is about to speak, when Marge beats her to the punch. "Can't she just come in with us?" she says fiercely.

"No ma'am."

"But, you didn't check our papers."

"You're not gypsies."

Esmeralda feels her temper flare up. "I've lived in Paris for most of my life! I have family behind those walls. I can take you to them-"

"Shut up, and get out of the cart!" the man orders.

Esmeralda grits her teeth, stifling a cry of frustration. She had thought Paris had put this garbage behind them. _Apparently not._

She debates whether she should stay in the cart. But, as her angry green gaze turns to the couple's, she knows that starting a new life in Paris did not mean hiding a gypsy fugitive in their cart.

"Fine." She snarls, rising from her place. "Esmeralda, no!" Marg says, grabbing her arm.

"Don't worry, I'll be fine. Now, may I please have my horse?" she says.

Skylla's reins were handed to her hands, and both Djali and Esmeralda look up at the couple. Forcing a grin, she waves a hand at them, all the while feeling her stomach twist in knots. "Thank you so much! I'll see you at the other side!" she says, trying not to feel apprehensive as the soldiers patrolling the gate surrounded her.

Marg opens her mouth to protest, but was silenced by a frantic glance from her husband. Shutting her mouth, Marg watches as the small gypsy girl disappears from view as their cart turns into Paris.

"Saints protect her," she mutters nervously.

Xxx

Esmeralda plasters a grin on her face and turns to the men now gathered around her. From previous experience, when dealing with soldiers, it was best to wear the most full lipped of smiles and walk the most full-hipped of walks.

"I'm quite sorry about not having papers. But I've been traveling for quite some time. I do have family in Paris. If you let me, I can tell you where they are," she says charmingly, hands on her hips.

While some of the men are assuaged by her warmth, the leader she first spoke to is less convinced. "Any gypsy caught without papers cannot enter the city. Since you aren't leaving, we have no choice but to take you custody."

Esmeralda's brows knit together, and her lips turn downward. "I was never given any papers! How can you possibly expect me to have something which wasn't in existence the last time I was in Paris?!" she says, fury rising quick.

The solider ignores her question, eyes wandering to her horse. "Pretty horse. Quite rare, for a gypsy to have one," he says pointedly.

"I didn't steal it, if that's what you're thinking. It was a gift from your Captain Phoebus," she says bitingly.

"Five guilders that it's stolen," grumbles one of the men behind her.

"I heard that, and how about you ask the Captain himself?"

"The Captain's not here to save you," one of them pipes up.

Esmeralda finds herself surrounded by six men, over-eager for action after months of mundane patrolling around a city that never seemed more boring.

Her green eyes dart from man to man, and she subtly reaches for her dagger.

"Gentlemen, I'd hate for my first day in Paris to be spent leading you all on a fruitless chase. Perhaps we should delay for another day?" she says in a sickeningly sweet voice.

The men around her step closer and closer, and energy spikes in her veins.

But before she can make her move... a man rides in, quite literally, on a white horse.

"What seems to be the problem here, lieutenant?" Phoebus says, quite literally breaking through the circle. Esmeralda feels her cheek muscles ache from the giant grin that now stretches on her face.

Suddenly, all the men stand straighter, and are filled with nervous energy. "Captain! What are you doing here?" the leader of their group asks.

"Oh, you know. Patrolling. Following orders. The usual," he says with wave of his gloved hand.

"We've caught a gypsy attempting to sneak into Paris without papers!" the man said, puffing his chest out and grabbing Esmeralda's arm.

With a single movement, she yanked the limb from his hand and proceeded to spin away from the company of men. "Not true. I wasn't sneaking anywhere. I was stopped when I was trying to enter, in a very not sneaky way, into the city," she says wryly.

Phoebus has to stifle his laughter with a cough.

"No need to stop this one. I know for a fact she'd want to get home."

"But she stole this horse!" the lieutenant says.

"Oh, Skylla? I gave that horse to her as a gift months ago. Glad to see she's in good condition," Phoebus comments. The company whisper, shooting suspicious glances between them. Esmeralda simply rolls her eyes.  
>She can't help but shoot a smug smile as Phoebus motions for both her and her horse to come forward. Still holding Djali, she saunters away, blowing a mocking kiss to the men. "Goodbye lieutenant. I'm sure we'll meet again, when you accuse me of another crime I didn't do," she says tauntingly.<p>

With that comment, she mounts onto her horse and follows Phoebus into the city.

Once past the walls, Phoebus quickly got off the horse and walked over to her, white teeth flashing in an enthusiastic grin. "Esmeralda... do you always have a habit of getting into trouble, or is it only when soldiers are around?" he comments.

Esmeralda rolls her eyes and gracefully slid off of Skylla. "Well, you seem to enjoy playing the knight in shining armor. I might just be doing it for your benefit," she says, punching him in the shoulder.

"Why is it you can't see me without hurting me?" he says, rubbing the shoulder.

"I didn't answer your question back then, don't think I'll do it now," she replies.

He shakes his head, still smiling. With about as much grace as a pup, he pulls her in for a hug. "How are you? I can't believe you're here! I was starting to think you had run off with some man in the country," he says.

"I'm fine. Happy to be home," she says warmly, patting his shoulder. She broke from him, her entire being feeling so light as happiness overwhelms her. Of course, this city had its unpleasant memories. But, there were too many people that she was so fond of to truly leave it.

"You're going to have to fill me in on all of your adventures. I'm sure there are many," he says.

"Eh, here and there, everywhere. Sometimes it was interesting, sometimes it was utterly boring," she says flippantly. Then, her tone is serious. "How's Clopin?"

"He's fine. Just fine."

If she were more focused, she would have sensed the change in his tone to something more foreboding. But instead, her eyes see the glint of his wedding ring. "And how's Fleur? Still as lovely as her namesake?" she says teasingly.

Phoebus suddenly grins. "She's great. And so's my daughter."

"Daughter?!" Esmeralda gasps, hand flying to her mouth.

"Yes," Phoebus says proudly, and at that moment, he looks every bit like a prideful father.

"Oh, I can tell already, she's going to have father wrapped around her little finger. What's the little princess's name?" Esmeralda says, suddenly so giddy with excitement.

"Aurore... means dawn..."

"I'm assuming Fleur picked it?" she says, nudging him.

"What?! Why does everyone say that!" Phoebus says, frustrated.

Esmeralda folds her arms, "Well. Did she?"

"Yes, but that's not the point! I could have thought of a pretty name too!"

"What were your options?"

Phoebus opens his mouth, only to realize he hadn't had any names picked out for a girl, but for a boy. Sheepishly, he clasps his hands behind his back, causing her to laugh loudly.

"Well, whatever her name is, I hope I get to meet her," Esmeralda says.

"Of course!" Phoebus replies.

For a moment, Esmeralda turns to the road ahead, suddenly lost in a swirl of sensation and familiar faces. There was the butcher that everyone avoided because of his rotting meat and surly attitude; there was the woman with the pushcart selling eggs; there was the tavern Clopin always went to have his fun, and the nearby baker who seemed to always take pity on gypsy children in the winter.

"It all looks the same," she comments, suddenly overwhelmed by a myriad of feeling.

Well, the same, save for the soldiers that now patrolled. Narrowing her eyes, she turns to Phoebus. "When did the guards become so active? Did something happen?"

Phoebus is suddenly quiet, and she saw guilt and apprehension seep into his frame. "Phoebus, what's wrong? What happened?" Esmeralda asks, anxiety twirling in her gut.

"Esmeralda... you're not going to like what I'm about to say," he says carefully, eyes following her every movement.

"What? What?! What the hell is going on?"

He's too afraid to say it all at once. "We have a new Minister. He's been cracking down on illegal activity. After you left, the city... it wasn't great."

"I remember, Phoebus... and although I hate you lot, we kind of needed extra soldiers," she says, instantly remembering the many times she had to run from cutthroats and men with very strong, wandering hands.

Phoebus winces and before he could speak, she says, "And even if the minister does have something against gypsies, that's nothing new. Nothing could be as bad as Frollo," Esmeralda says darkly, instantly glaring at a point far ahead of her.

"That's the problem. It's Frollo."

Her eyes widen minutely as her heart thuds furiously, an automatic response to what he's suggesting. But, she soon forces a smirk, and rolls her eyes. "Very funny, Phoebus," she says, inwardly cursing at how her voice still shook, still betrayed the fear she tries so desperately to bury.

But his face is still wan and pale. And she realizes that the next words he will say will destroy whatever hope for a new life she has left.

"He's been reinstated. The Crown needed a new minister, so they looked into their dungeons to find _him_," Phoebus says, spitting the last word in disgust.

Reality crashes down on Esmeralda as devastatingly as a falling stone. _No... no!_ her thoughts screamed in horror.

She backs away from him. "You're lying!" she snarls, fists clenching, muscles tight and ready for a battle.

Phoebus attempts to call her name, calm her. But she can't be calm; not when visions of smoke, fire and him spring before her eyes, blinding her vision. He stands in her personal hell, his smirk sadistic, as if it were only a matter of time before he caught and tortured her in his fiendish claws.

She doesn't know she's running until she almost crashes into one of the pushcarts. "Hey! Where do you think you're going?!" the woman shrieks.

But Esmeralda keeps running, bare feet slapping harshly against the cobblestone streets. Running from a monster that will never stop, from a beast that reappears over and over.

Her breaths gasps from her heaving, aching chest, and her legs burn from the exertion of running. But she runs faster fear running her blood cold, oh so cold.

She runs away, bile rising in her throat, hot needles of pain twisting in her abdomen...

She doesn't know she is on the bank of the Seine until she feels cold mud squish under her feet.

She finally stops, raggedly panting, stomach hurting from both running and thoughts of... that man.

She shakes uncontrollably, and her legs give out from under her, sending her down into the mud. Curling in on herself, she feels frustrated screams fight their way out of her throat, harshly crying out into the day. _It's not fair!_ She thinks bitterly, tears burning in her eyes.

She feels sick. And absolutely angry. Why is it that_ he _of all people is forgiven? Of all the prisoners who have been sent to rot in the Palace of Justice, he is the one that receives reprieve?

There had been so many gypsies sentenced for years because they simply stole to feed their families. And after one year, a monster, a killer, had been let loose and given honor.

It seems to be all one giant, cruel, cosmic joke. After all she went through... she's back at square one. Running from soldiers, running from his reaching, wandering hands

A choking sob claws its way from her hurting throat. "It's not fair," she cries hoarsely, the bitter taste of hatred lingering on her tongue.

_I've come from so far_... she thinks, heart constricting painfully in her chest. She had been running, trying to leave behind the past... only to come walking back into it just when she thought herself... not _fully_ healed, but certainly able to walk around Paris without the crippling fear of before.

Except... now, all she can think about is his face. How is she expected to move on when the very monster who haunts her nightmares rules the city?

She shudders, feeling ice cold, even as the sun blazes down on her with all its heat. Fear, anger, and desolation swirl within her, a lethal cocktail that threatens to strip away whatever hope she has left.

She hears someone behind her. Gasping, she springs to her feet, turning with her dagger brandished... to see blonde hair, brown eyes, instead of a harshly lined face and hooked nose.

"Oh," she says pathetically, awkwardly lowering her knife while her heart pounds furiously in her chest.

He has such a painfully uneasy look on his face, and she instantly feels guilty... _for what, being afraid? _She thinks pointedly.

"I... this little guy couldn't keep up with you," he says, redirecting her gaze downwards towards Djali who bleats in joy that his beloved friend is not lost.

Esmeralda feels a stab of guilt. "Oh! Right! Sorry Djali," she murmurs, bending down and picking up the goat. For a moment, she buries her face into his coarse fur, breathing in that musky, yet comforting, scent.

She tries to will herself to stop shaking, but cannot. Suddenly angry, she lashes at the one person there. "Why didn't you stop him?" she accuses. She still grips Djali tight, as if the small animal anchors her to this world, keeps her from sinking down and despairing in the mud.

Phoebus, after tying off Skylla and Achilles, faces her. He flinches in the face of her anger, and cannot help but be defensive. "It was the king's will. I didn't know it was going to happen until the papers had been signed!  
>Anger burns within her like fire, scalding each nerve ending until she becomes too heated to even think anymore. "You're the fucking captain of the guard! If anyone can speak out, it's you! You know what he's done!" she snaps at him, voice ringing out across the river.<p>

Phoebus's glance darts frantically across the river. "Keep your voice down!" he says warningly, attempting to near her.

But she reacts as if he is the very threat she fears, stumbling further back, dragging her skirts farther into the muck. Her muscles twitch and tremble, and in that moment, she feels like a cornered animal: agitated, threatened, and angry.

"How can I possible keep my voice down when you have allowed that monster to waltz in and take power?!" she yells, her voice howling and raging like the most deadly of storm winds.

"I had no choice!"

It was as if something broke apart with an audible _snap_ in her mind. Still shaking in both fury and fear, she sloshes towards him through the dark, grainy mud.

"Had no choice?! My brother, a gypsy, a man who's thought of as _subhuman_, chooses to openly mock Judge Frollo. He has so much more to fear than you do! But he chose to not give up! I would think the least you could do is make sure the people you serve are protected from the likes of him!" she cries out passionately. Phoebus steps back, genuine fear in his wide eyes. "Esmeralda..."

"No, dammit, I'm talking! You are telling me that there is absolutely no way that you, a military officer who everybody thinks is the city hero, can just... protest against him?!" she cries out bitterly.

"Esmeralda, if I spoke out against him... it's treason!"

"So?" she hisses.

Phoebus staggers back, absolutely floored by the coldness that seeps into her usually warm tone. And as she stares into his shocked eyes, she realizes the absolute stupidity, no, _cruelty _of her statement. In only a few moments, she can see his future had he refused an imperious monarch's wishes; a future that truly no longer had him living with his head atop his shoulders.

She gasps at her own blind fury. Immediately, apologies fall from the lips that once spewed such acid words. "I'm sorry, I... I didn't mean..." she says, clasping a hand to her mouth, as if to physically push the hateful words back down her throat, back to that dark, panicked place that frightens even her.

Phoebus's eyes still betray hurt, but he nods. Esmeralda believes that he lies when he says, "It's fine."

She turns away from him, still holding Djali tightly. The animal, vaguely aware of his mistress's turmoil, bleats mournfully as if to sympathize.

Subconsciously running her fingers through gnarled fur, she looks out at the Seine, too ashamed of her outburst to even meet his gaze. "I'm sorry, I couldn't help," Phoebus says lamely, and she can hear him shifting awkwardly in his stance on the riverbank.

"It's not your fault," she says lowly, sighing. Her eyes flicker to the other side of the bank, where three children, unaware of the grim-faced woman before them, splash and dunk each other into the cold spray. She watches, detached from their actions. She can't even smile. All she can think about is how the fire burnt, how his eyes burnt... their high pitched laughs and screams of delight take on something more macabre and frightening in her mind, as suddenly memories of gypsies, screaming in terror at the approaching fire and guard, spring before her.

_Heat... terrible heat... Flames licking at the bundles at her feet... choking smoke..._

"Esmeralda?"

It occurs to her that he's been calling her name repeatedly for the past few minutes. She feels as if she's swimming in murky waters, unable to surface.

Blinking, she turns back to him, breathing labored. "Earth to Esmeralda," he says with an awkward, halfhearted laugh.

Her brow furrows and she presses a hand to her temples, ears ringing. "Sorry," she murmurs, gut clenching in anxiety. What was happening to her? She can feel panic mounting in her chest, as solid and immovable as a lead weight.

She tries to shake off the alarming visions and distract her harrowed mind. "How long... has he been... back?" she says haltingly folding her arms tightly over her chest, as if the physical action will seal herself off from her surroundings.

"For a couple of months," Phoebus replies, still eyeing her carefully.

"Has he done anything exceedingly awful yet?" she says sardonically, slowly regaining her calm demeanor, and masking the previous vulnerability underneath the forced, wry demeanor. She knows it sounds false to her own ears, but she just hopes that Phoebus believes her.

She doesn't know if she is relieved or secretly disheartened when he does not seem affected by the false tone of voice and does not push the issue. "Not yet. He's been put on a short leash. There's a man named Nicolas Bonhomme, from the king. He seems like a decent man, and he's kind of Frollo's babysitter," Phoebus says, attempting to get her to smile at the quip.

Her lips quirk up minutely, but she can't laugh with him without it sounding absolutely forced. "Frollo's babysitter. _Poor man_. I would rather swallow a rat whole," she says, shuddering.

Still so serious, she turns her guarded gaze back to the children across the river. Concern is present in the smooth facets of her face, in her drawn together brows. "No matter how short the leash is, a mad dog always yanks itself out eventually," she says.

Phoebus stares at her tense posture, completely clueless on how to react in the face of her utter anxiety. "If he makes one slip up he goes back to prison," he volunteers sheepishly.

Esmeralda shoots a disbelieving glare, causing him to audibly gulp.

There were the words again-angry, bitter words fighting up her throat to gain entrance out of her mouth.

She had never been good at controlling her mouth. Nor her temper. So it's not really a surprise to her when she says:

"Unless the king just wants him to just get rid of the gypsies for good."

Phoebus gasps loudly, eyes glinting in alarm. "Esmeralda, you can't think like that!"

"Why shouldn't I? The moment they put Frollo back in as Minister, they proved they want us gone." She retorts fiercely.

Unfortunately, he doesn't have a suitable response for her. Sighing in frustration, she closes her eyes, trying to relieve herself of the heavy weight that settles down upon her, drags her down like shackles in the Palace of Justice itself.

"He doesn't know you're back."

Esmeralda frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Frollo. I told him you had left Paris months ago. That you were gone. He still doesn't know you're back. The soldiers at the walls never send full reports of what goes on," Phoebus says calmly.

Esmeralda turns to him. Without saying the words out loud, she knows what he means. She's invisible. A ghost. As long as she stays hidden... she's safe from him.

But what kind of life is that, to be a fugitive in your own home? She thinks. It feels so... cowardly. It doesn't sit well with her, especially since it is so evocative of the last time she had to be "invisible".

She combats the wave of memories by thinking of other things. Thinking of the present. After all the bad news he's said today, Phoebus has granted her a boon. "Thank you," she says, her green eyes glinting with understanding.

"Here..." Phoebus pulls out a scroll from a pocket of his belt, then a quill. Leaning onto a nearby tree, with Esmeralda's intent eyes watching his every brush stroke, he begins to draw on a map of the city.

"Frollo's pretty routine, so his routes don't usually change. If you want to avoid him, stay off of these paths from about noon to four. He goes to Notre Dame on Sundays, morning and evening mass. Just lay low, and he won't find you," he promises.

While the tendrils of fear still clutch her heart tight, she still is overwhelmed with tenderness by his actions. "Thank you," she repeats softly, hands reaching for the map.

He nods, eyes still concerned. Esmeralda folds the map and places t in her bag. For a moment she kicks at the muddy water, unaware of what to say. She had so many questions, and yet she was afraid to know the answers.

"I should go to Clopin," she breathes out in a rushed exhale. Phoebus nods. "I'll walk you there," he volunteers.

xxx

Thanks for reading and the reviews! -Cgal


	5. Chapter 4

As Esmeralda climbs up the riverbank onto the road, she tries to relax her horribly tense demeanor.

"You sure your lady-wife won't mind you acting so... _familiar_ towards me?" she teases lightly, attempting to fall back into that earlier, happy mood that had been so quickly taken from her.

Phoebus rolls his eyes. "I see no offense in helping a poor lady return home, especially at this hour."

"It's noon."

"Ah, noon, midnight, what's the difference?" he says with a wave of his hand.

Esmeralda's lips curve upward in a smile that although doesn't quite reach her eyes, still makes her feel a little lighter. "Do I need to give a list?"

Settling into an oddly familiar rhythm, she walks the path towards the graveyard. She playfully pats Skylla, finding contentment in the mare's tender whinnies and snorts. It was odd, that now her heart leapt in joy, not fear, in anticipation of going to such a grim place. Her joy to outsiders seems entirely unreasonable, as she passes by hundreds of tombs proclaiming the morbid certainty of death.

_It's_ _Grim to others, but not to me, _she thinks, flashes of brief, happy memories flickering through her mind. Her smile grows wider, and she decides that if she is coming home, she needs to fully come home. Not be tentative, even as Frollo rules the city she loves.

So she turns to him and throws herself into conversation. "How is Quasi?" she says.

"He's fine..."

"Please tell me he's getting out of that bell-tower. He said he would before I left," she says wryly, hands on her hips.

Another, less happy memory surges through her mind. _"You're leaving?"_ Quasi had said, his voice quiet.

Esmeralda had announced her departure during one of her last visits to him. He was the second person to know, besides Phoebus. _"Yes. I'm only young once! There's so many places I have yet to see,"_ she had said warmly, hiding the guilt she felt at seeing the crestfallen expression slip onto his face.

He had fiddled with his tunic, shifting awkwardly in his seat to avoid her gaze.

_"__You could come with me!"_ she had said, gripping at his broad palm. It had all seemed so possible then. She had been so taken by the idea, on traveling with the gentle man who desperately needed to see the world.

But Quasi had shaken his head.

_"__I'm not ready for that, Es,"_ he had said shyly.

For the life of her, she didn't remember now what she had said to him after that. It was so long ago...it was odd. Some parts of her memory were so vivid, she could remember the exact way Quasi had fiddled with his tunic... while other memories seemed so much more detached, clouded under the fickle haze of memory.

He had been so pensive and quiet the last day when she had said goodbye, and although many had chalked it up to his general demeanor, she knew he had been sad.

_"__Get out of the tower once in a while when I'm gone, okay Quasi?"_ she had said when she hugged his large frame, hands clasping each other behind him.

"He likes to keep to himself... but he's been out. Don't worry, I've been making sure to walk with him... People are getting used to him. Doesn't hurt that he was the town hero," Phoebus says, grinning.

Relief floods her system, and she nods. "Good... I'll see him tomorrow," she says.

As they walk along, she turns to Skylla, heart dropping in her chest. "I don't really know what I'm going to do with her in the Court... truth be told, there's no space for gypsies down there, let alone a horse," she frowned, hands still brushing over Skylla's mane and flanks. Truth be told, a surge of anxiety pulses through at the thought of abandoning her friend. It seems ridiculous, but in the past few months...Djali and Skylla were the only constant companions. They never asked prying questions, never gave her hostile glares that villagers sometimes would. They simply were there.

"I can take her to the stables. I can say I bought her myself, as a breeding mate for Achilles. She'll be taken care of," Phoebus offers.

Yet again, Esmeralda turns to him, a disbelieving smile on her face. How can he be so kind to her, when all she has done is accuse him? "Thank you," she repeats huskily.

Finally, they reach the tomb. "Allow me," he says, sliding the large stone tablet away. "Why thank you, kind sir," she says teasingly, lifting her stained skirts and leaping into the tomb. "I think I can take it from here!" Esmeralda says wryly.

Phoebus nods. "All right. But listen... if you ever need any help... meet me at Notre Dame at sundown. Or find me at my home," he adds.

"Hmmm... I think I can find you myself. I know my way around," she says, shooting him a wink.  
>She sees concern in his face, and he doesn't give her his trademark grin. "Just... be careful, all right?" he says warningly.<p>

Esmeralda's eyes are unreadable as she hides her worry behind a vacant stare. "I will," she says, but for some reason, the words feel false in her mouth.

Phoebus seems convinced, but nods. He carefully raises the stone slab, waiting until she moves farther down the stairs to seal off the entrance.

Esmeralda quickly descends down the familiar path, heart leaping in her chest. While the path ahead is completely pitch dark, her body moves naturally towards the entrance to the Court, if an invisible rope pulls her in. She barely flinches when ice-cold water rises around her legs. The stench, of sewage and bodies, barely fazes her. Home was home, no matter the smell.

Djali splashes in the water, bleats echoing off the high vaulted ceilings of the tunnel.

She hears someone move behind her. And although she knows what's to come, she still flinches as strong hands grip her from behind. "Hello Brutus," she says warmly.

A gasp is heard behind her and she hears him splash water and fumble. Light explodes in the dark chamber, and Esmeralda shields her eyes as Brutus lifts a lantern high above her.

The habitual guard of the Court lifts his lantern to her face, and she laughs. "Keep that light down! Do you want to blind me?" she says good-naturedly.

Brutus scrutinizes her face for a moment, only to grin widely. "Esmeralda!" he says, pulling her in a bear hug and laughing. Lifted high off the ground, Esmeralda squeezes him back. "Brutus. Haven't changed a bit I see?" she says.

He finally lowers her back into the water. Adjusting his eye-patch, he then grabs her hand clumsily, pulling her deeper to the Court of Miracles. "Come! I'm sure Clopin wants to see you!" he booms, loud, raucous voice ricocheting off the high walls. She lets herself be dragged, all the while a strange unease building in her stomach. _Please forgive me, _she begs, shame flushing her cheeks red.

But there's no time to reflect on the past when the present is bustling around her. Brutus, a man known throughout the Court for his warmth, attracts the people of the Court easily. And once they see just who he drags through the tent populated city, they chatter and shout excitedly. "Esmeralda!"

She hears a familiar voice. "Rosa!" she grins, watching as a heavily pregnant woman comes ambling along, features split by a huge grin. Esmeralda is stunned at the huge swell of her stomach. "Pregnant?" she squeaks, unable to articulate any other words.

The rosy-cheeked woman rolls her eyes. "I certainly hope so, else this means all the weight goes straight to my belly," she says humorously.

Esmeralda opens her mouth to chortle with her, tease her about the father, but she's swept by Brutus's outstretched arm and ushered towards Clopin's tent.

"Clopin!" he shouts, giant fist banging on the wooden tent pole. A cry of aggravation is heard in the tent, in a voice that makes Esmeralda's heart stop. "What is it now?" Clopin groans, gloved hands opening the tent curtains with a flourish.

His aggravated expression melts to one of shock when his eyes meet with his little sister's, and Esmeralda feels her stomach flip flop. _I'm sorry, I'm so sorry for being so stupid, I'm sorry for being mad at you, _she inwardly babbles, her thoughts racing as his wild-eyes glance her over.

"Clopin-" she starts, voice already hoarse from tension.

But she's swept into a tight, vise-like embrace. "Welcome home," he murmurs softly in her ear, and the unease that clenches in her belly slowly unfurls, as she realizes that any forgiveness she was sure she had to beg for is now given in the form of this hug. She wraps her inert arms around him, and lets him lift her off of her toes, pretending to be the young toddler he had once tossed so easily into the air. She smiles so wide her cheeks strain. "Hello," she says, too overwhelmed by the nostalgic sweetness his skinny arms and smoky scent evoke. She tries to pull back, only for him to clench her tight.

"Oh no, little miss, you are not running off so easily to go chatter along with your gals," Clopin says mockingly, but with a deep, sentimental emotion that so infrequently enters his voice.

Esmeralda chooses to smack him lightly on the shoulder blade. "Well, seeing as I came to your tent first, I think I deserve some credit for not going to gossip. I mean, look at Rosa! She's pregnant!"

"Oh, and you think I don't have news that will rival that? Just because I am a man and I can't grow a babe in my stomach?" he says, at last breaking the hug to look at her. His eyes are suspiciously glassy, but knowing how Clopin is about such things, she doesn't mention it.

Clopin quickly ushers her into the familiar tent, sitting her down on one of the many cusions layering the floor. "Now, ma petite souer, how about you tell me how your journey was?" he says, immediately grabbing food. As his dark, calloused hands pluck out a white fluffy roll, Esmeralda's eyes nearly bug out of her head.

"Is that... Clopin, that bread! It looks-"

"Delightful, amazing, miraculous? Much like me?" he says, puckering his lips smugly.

He has to duck when Esmeralda hurls one of the threadbare pillows with as much force as she can muster.

"Oh, you think you're so impressive! But really... Clopin, where did you get that?!" Esmeralda asks as a white, fluffy roll lands on her hands. It's still warm, and smells fresh. Usually, they get the stale ones, the coarse, grainy leftovers from the market. "Did you steal this?" she automatically says, shooting him a sharp look.

"Only here two minutes, and already lecturing me? Sister dear, I'm shocked!" Clopin says, splaying his hands across his chest in mock-insult. Esmeralda rolls her eyes, still scrutinizing him as he plops down beside her. "All right, brother dear. Where did you get it then?" she asks, already tearing it apart.

"Well, you know Romana, the baker's wife? She was quite lonely after her husband's been going off with some of the street whores. So..." he trails of smirking.

Interested, Esmeralda leans forward, green eyes glinting with mischief. "So...?"

With a long draught of his wineskin, Clopin slyly says, "She's not lonely anymore."

Esmeralda bites back her laughter, choosing to instead shake her head. "You know what happens if the baker actually catches you, right?" she says wryly.

"Oh, but that, won't happen. I'm quite careful and ah, _discreet_ when I need to be. But you're not discreet at all! I see right through that interest. You're stalling! Tell me about your forays into the motherland, oh wandering one," Clopin says, tossing her the wineskin.

Taking a long drink, she smiles slowly. "First was following the Seine for a while, wandering the countryside. It's absolutely beautiful out there. Woods and plains, far as the eye can see. On sunny days, you just get lost in the blue sky..."

Clopin listens, nodding each time, taking in each of his little sister's expressions. Esmeralda talks for so long, describing the people she met, the countryside, the ocean, everything.

Clopin is the perfect performer. So he knows what a perfect audience member acts like, and laughs in the right parts, needles her for more when she wants it, and doesn't prod when it seems like she's finished with a story.

"...You know... I went into Reims," she starts, and Clopin's interest instantly peaks.

Lurching forward he grabs her hands. "Reims? You mean... where mother..."

"Yes... asked around if anyone knew her before she joined the troupe...actually, a nice girl took me to her house. Well, her old house. There was another family. But... it was so quaint. So peaceful. It makes me wonder why she ever decided to go off with the troupe." She says, laughing.

"Probably because that cottage was fucking boring," Clopin says lazily.

Esmeralda pinches his arm. In response, he shoves her.

They smile at each other. But Esmeralda sees the joyous glint suddenly disappear. "Esmeralda, there's something you should know..." he starts, but she places a halting hand on his shoulder.

"No need. Phoebus actually gave me... _that _bit of the news when I came in. Frollo's back," she says, the very words like acid.

Clopin's shoulders relax, and he looks relieved he's not the one to ruin Esmeralda's homecoming. "It's good Doofus did it. I had no idea how to start, and if you did get mad, at least he's covered in armor."

Esmeralda rolls her eyes, a stab of guilt still panging in her chest as she remembered her earlier hostility towards him. "I still have no idea how you chose that nickname. But be nice! He was very helpful..."

"Then why didya kick him to the curb?" he says subtly, and she yet again smacks him. "Ouch! Christ, If I'd known you were going to hit me, I'd have worn a thicker shirt," he says, rubbing his shoulder.

"So, how is everyone? Especially with Frollo... around?" Esmeralda says, eyes meeting his.

Clopin instantly stiffens, his expression resembling that of a growling dog. "Pah! That man! He rides through the city, all high and mighty, as if he weren't gone at all! If he weren't surrounded by his damn guard, I would put an arrow through his eye."

"You couldn't shoot that well even if you tried," she mutters into her wine.

He glares at her. Esmeralda simply shrugs, mouth screwing to the side.

Clopin folds his arms and sprawls against the cushions, still shooting daggers. "It's been relatively quiet. For Frollo at least. More guards, more meddling... no outright killing sprees yet," Clopin says sardonically.

"Hmmph," Esmeralda breathes out, brow furrowing. Taking another long sip, she quietly remarks, "He doesn't know I'm in the city."

"Good. Because every time you run into each other, things start catching on fire," he says pointedly. But any humor dissipated as he leaned forward, concern in his brown eyes. "But he'll only leave you alone if you don't cross him. And I know you mademoiselle. You meddle and get into trouble more often than not," he comments.

"You're one to talk!" she scoffs.

"Esmeralda, I don't have a geriatric bastard who once tried to fuck me or kill me," he says coarsely. "That you know of," she murmurs dryly.

"Esmeralda," he says warningly.

She groans. "Yes, I'll lay low!"

Clopin purses his lips, the worries glinting in his eyes. Esmeralda instantly feels defensive, meeting his eyes with a glare.

"Why so doubtful? Do you really think I would be so stupid as to goad him on? Put all of Paris in jeopardy? I haven't forgotten the first time I crossed him," she spits out.

Clopin raises his hands in defense. "I said nothing about you being stupid."

Esmeralda folded her arms over her chest, still shooting daggers at him. Already, she was absolutely prickling from the thought of hiding, sneaking around her own city. But she soon sighs, releasing the bunched up tension in her shoulders.

Clopin was unusually quiet, eyes fixated on the tired expression that was etched on her face. Seeing his expression, Esmeralda forces a grin.

"But no more doom and gloom. I do want to hear about Rosa. And Brutus. And how's Augusta?" Esmeralda says, winking.

Clopin grins devilishly. "I don't kiss and tell. So only know that Augusta... is well."

Xxx

After hours of exchanging stories of the past, Clopin finally grunts and hauls himself to bed, muttering incoherently about "wine and women and sleep".

Esmeralda smiles at him, then crosses to the other room, sectioned off by hanging sheets. Suddenly exhausted, she slowly eases herself down onto the familiar oddly assorted pillows. Djali sinks down beside her, curled in contentment. "Good night," she murmurs, still disconcerted by the familiarity, yet feeling detached from her surroundings.

She was home; really home. It feels odd. She should feel the elation she had felt before when surrounded by the crowd, when Clopin was embracing her and regaling her with stories of his exploits.

But, alone, staring at the threadbare fabric of their tent, Esmeralda felt... nothing.

She felt so empty. Perhaps it was just being tired. But she couldn't shake off a hollowness within her.

Shaking her head, Esmeralda pulls up the covers and rolls to her side. She shuts her eyes, and surrenders herself to the darkness behind her eyelids.

xxx

It was odd just how easy it was to settle back into old routines, with some minor readjustments.

After a night (mostly) free of nightmares, Esmeralda woke to find Clopin urging her to get up and make breakfast with Rosa. Esmeralda, eager to fit back in, threw herself into the mundane chore.

But after a long morning of ordinary chores restricted to the Court, she realizes Clopin had other motives to keeping her working _inside_ their haven, not out of it.

As dusk creeps over Paris, Esmeralda decidedly enters the tent, wiping her hands of grime and food remnants. "I'm going out to see Quasi. I'll be back," she says, throwing on her cloak. She feels him instantly drop what he's doing. "Oh no you don't! You still have laundry-"

"Finished it."

"Dinner?"

"Marissa insists on making it tonight."

"Dishes?"

"You need to have people eat dinner first before having dishes to clean."

Clopin folds his arms, a sheepish look on his face. At least he bothered to look a little guilty.

"Clopin, it's after four. Frollo's already skulked back to his lair, and won't be looking for me. I've traveled through the city without drawing attention before," she states, grabbing her gnarled wooden cane to use for her old woman's disguise.

He still looks concerned. But before he can say anything else, she says, "I promised myself I would see him today. Oh, and you are not keeping me in the Court forever. I'm dancing tomorrow. Perhaps a little more... _subtly_ during the day, but I'm dancing. I pull my own weight. Even if I am the king's little sister." She bends down and quickly kisses him on the cheek, turning to leave.

"Be careful! Do nothing rash!" he calls out after her, his movements frantic.

She turns back to him, and smiles. "Oh, you mean do nothing you would do? Got it!" she says teasingly. With those words, she pulls on her cloak, and makes her way to the entrance of the catacombs, Djali in tow.

"Good evening, Brutus." She comments to the big man who hides in the shadows.

"Evenin' Esmeralda!" he pipes up cheerfully.

She smiles in his general direction. Djali bleats his own greeting, then splashes around in the murky water.

Esmeralda makes her way to the stairs... and her smile fades. Trying to ignore the way her heart hastens its beat, she pulls on her hood, then pushes on the stone slab above her until it falls with a muffled thud to the side.

Taking a deep breath, Esmeralda steps out of the grave, making sure Djali follows before she replaces the stone slab. She slowly walks towards the exit of the graveyard

As she passes tombstones and dreary looking mausoleums, Esmeralda feels a prickling, unpleasant sensation creeping up her spine, setting her entire being on edge. It's a paranoid, debilitating feeling. The feeling that she's being watched.

Her gaze shifts all around... only to see no one. No one but the dead.

Biting her lip, she scoops Djali up, tucking him into the folds of her cloak. "Stay quiet. You know the drill," she murmurs quietly. As if to reassure her, Djali nuzzles closer.

Giving the goat a small smile, she pulls the cloak on tighter, and bends over. Her skin still prickles, as if her mind tries to convince her that staying home is indeed a good idea.

_No one's looking for me_, she reminds herself, and she forces herself to hobble, assuming the character of the old woman- no men want to grab her. No one wants to notice her. And soldiers just point and laugh.

As she makes her way though the city, her green eyes dart to the men lining the streets at every other corner. Their visors make them anonymous, and it's almost eerie how _still_ they are. _They're just soldiers, _she repeats over and over.

She's never been scared of them before. She wasn't a fool; she knew she had to avoid them. But she had never felt the gnawing fear that now settled in her abdomen, forcing her to hobble faster.

If they saw her... if they figured out who she was... what was stopping them from telling Frollo?

She makes her way, glancing up every so often to check if she's being followed.

When she finally makes her way to Notre Dame, she has to force herself not to tremble in the shadow of the great stone edifice. _Don't think about it,_ she chants.

_Heat... blazing, terrible heat, licking at her feet, creeping up her legs, choking smoke..._

_STOP IT!_ She inwardly screams.

Her hands shake as she pushes the heavy wooden doors.

Esmeralda quickly shuts it behind her, sealing herself in. As she stops to calm her nerves... she realizes just how quiet Notre Dame is.

She had forgotten... how isolated this place felt. The bustling sounds of the marketplace outside does not register. The shrill sounds of fishwives haggling over prices; children shrieking and jeering at each other.

All the sound, the noise, the chaos... it disappears. Leaving an emptiness... a peace that does in fact seem... heavenly.

Esmeralda slowly straightens up, letting Djali out of her cloak. The goat sticks by his companion's side as she carefully treads into Notre Dame, her feet padding silently over the black and white tiles that are so cool against her heels. In fact, everything about the cathedral is cool; from the air so much chillier than the hot steamy air outside, to the icy glares of the statues above her, eyeing her every step.

Monks in brown hoods patrol the aisles, gliding through the pews like ghosts. She slowly backs away from them, looking for the twisted staircase leading to Quasimodo's tower.

As she slips into the stairwell, memories flood through her head. It seems no matter where she goes, the very ground she steps on is dripping with memory, with wistful remembrance.

She remembers dashing up these stairs, meeting Quasimodo for the first time. She remembers being ushered down the same staircase by Phoebus and Quasi, shaking, pretending to feel triumphant as the people screamed for joy as the minister was hauled off in manacles.

Now... there was no pretending. There was no victory now. That was quite clear to her.

Shutting her eyes, Esmeralda forces the dark thoughts to the back of her mind. No. When she sees her forever optimistic friend, she has to not look like she's about to attend a funeral.

Opening her eyes, she turns the corner... to enter the entrance of Quasimodo's loft.

It's quiet, save for whispers of the wind that blow through into the bell-tower. "Quasi?" she calls out.

She hears loud creaks in the floorboards. And Quasimodo peeks his head over the ladder.

As his deformed face splits into a huge grin, she feels some of the dismal clouds begin to lift. "Esmeralda!" he cries out ecstatically, sliding down the ladder rails and launching himself at her in a huge, clumsy hug.

Esmeralda feels her lips turn up in a smile. "Good to see you too, Quasi!" she laughs, pressing her head at his shoulder.

Quasimodo pulls away from their shared embrace, but still holds her hands tightly within his broad palms. His smile stretches wide across his face, as his mismatched eyes meet her own gaze. "When did you get back?" he asks.

"Only yesterday," Esmeralda replies. He reminds her then of a newborn pup, hardly sitting still and absolutely happy.

"Come on up!" he says, grabbing her arm and pulling her up the stairs to his loft. Before she cans ay anything, he's already grabbed a stool, wine, and goblet for her.

After the whirlwind couple of days, his kindness touches her. She realizes just how much she missed him. Blinking back tears, she smiles and sits, knowing if she protests he'll just insist more and more.

"Oh! I see you've added some more," she blurts out, her eyes glinting in delight at the new wooden figurines present in town. As is his bashful nature, Quasi's eyes turn downward and his pale skin flushes red. "Just some people here and there..." he says, wringing his hands.

"Well, they're beautiful. I feel like I know them already," Esmeralda says gently.

Quasimodo's smile is small, but nonetheless she can feel its warmth. "Thank you." His gaze slides up to hers, and he instantly perks up. "So. How was your trip? Meet any new friends?"

Esmeralda smiles. "A few here and there. A few were... well, scoundrels, and not the good kind. But people were friendly! I wish you had met some of them..."

"Ah, maybe its better I didn't. Better they meet you," Quasi says quietly, suddenly interested in a point on the floor.

Esmeralda nearly winces at the comment. She still forgets how... affected her friend is by Frollo.

He's gotten better of course. When she had left last, he had been slowly befriending the village children, going out more and more.

"Come on! I know they would have loved you... when I talked about you they all seemed really curious about you," she says.

"Really? What were you saying?" he says suspiciously.

"Oh, nothing but the truth," she says, winking.

He blushes again, ducking his head. Esmeralda leans on her fist. "Anything new happen?" Esmeralda comments.

"New? I... well... there's a new baker in town. Le Roux is closed because of all the mud... and..." he stops abruptly, and his face is pale. She knows what he's about to say, and beats him to the punch. "Frollo's back. I know, Phoebus told me." She says quickly.

Quasimodo audibly gulps, and she suddenly realizes she's not the only one who has good reason to be worried about Frollo's return. She inwardly curses at herself for being so self-centered. "Has... has he come to find you?" Esmeralda asks quietly.

"No. He comes for mass... then leaves," Quasimodo comments, folding his arms.

Esmeralda bites her lip, trying to find the words to comfort him even as she feels its pointless. "Good. He better stay away... after what he's done," she says darkly, and Quasimodo shifts uneasily in his seat.

"Right," Quasi mutters. But he looks up to her, and his eyes are wide as he says, "But what about you?"

"He doesn't even know I'm in Paris. He won't come after me," she says, although the promise feels hollow after her own paranoia as she had walked through the city.

"And besides. I wasn't asking about Paris. I was asking about you," she says, forcing a grin.

"Me?" he says, frowning.

"Come on, its been months since I've seen you last. Surely something's must have happened?" Esmeralda says, smirking.

Quasi shrugs, but she sees a little grin slip on his face. "Ah, ah, ah, I see that grin, mister. Who is it?" Esmeralda says, excitement building.

His face flushes red once more. "Come on! Who is she? I'm assuming it's a girl, seeing as you can't stop blushing," Esmeralda says teasingly.

"I-I-I..." he stammers.

Esmeralda waits patiently for him. Finally, with a huge gulp of air, he finally spits it out. "Her name's Madeleine," Quasi says, a sweet, small smile on his face.

"Madeleine. Haven't heard that name before. Who is she?" Esmeralda asks.

"She was a circus performer... her troupe was traveling through, but she stayed in Paris... she now sells flowers with Marion."

"Have you talked to her?" Esmeralda asks, propping her chin on her palm and studying him eagerly.

"Sure... I... I go to her pushcart. I pass it when I go deliver figurines to the children." He says softly.

"That's so... fantastic Quasi!" Esmeralda replies enthusiastically.

xxx

For the rest of the evening, Esmeralda and Quasimodo spoke about anything and everything. He only interrupts their dialogue to ring the bells, giving her cotton to stuff in her ears. As the booming cacophony of sound vibrates the air around her, Esmeralda feels the incredible familiarity and comfort of the moment. She remembers sitting here, watching him leap from bell to bell, calling their names as he heaves and pulls at ropes. The memories are happy, untarnished by even the darkest times.

As they speak... the only sadness she feels is the regret of missing so much. When he speaks of the mystery blonde at the pushcarts, of the children who now flood his annex at every interval, she feels guilty that she had never been there to witness the change. She feels guilty that she hadn't been there for the kindest and most selfless of her friends.

Night falls quick, and she remembers Clopin, waiting at home, probably pacing wildly in their tent. "I should probably go. But I'll see you tomorrow! Promise," she swears, wrapping her arms around him once again.

"Be careful! There's always a ton of guards at Rue de Elysier," Quasi warns. She reaches over and squeezes his hand, silently promising to avoid the street.

Esmeralda throws on her hood. "Make sure you keep seeing that girl, Quasi. You never know just who people fall in love with," she says with a wink.

He blushes, but does not deny her statement in any way. And Esmeralda smiles softly to herself as she descends down the tower.

She assumes her disguise once more, Djali perched in her arm. The night is quiet, deathly still. As if in anticipation for the storm clouds that roll overhead.

A building catches her eye. The tall spires of the Palace of Justice cut across the dark sky, imposing, imperial among the much simpler houses. Clutching her cloak tight, she tries not to feel the chill that certainly isn't due to the hot summer air around her.

Willing her limbs to stop their involuntary trembling, Esmeralda hobbles down the road, wondering childishly if those spires had eyes affixed to their apexes-and whether or not they reported to the master within.

Xxx

_Scritch. Scratch. Scritch. Scratch._

Frollo tries to block out that sound. That horrendously mundane, ordinary sound that seems to growing more in infamy to his ears than any other. But perhaps, it's not the sound itself, but the meaning of it.

The sound of Nicholas Bonhomme's quill upon paper alerts Frollo of his meddling.

Six weeks. Six, long, weeks. Six weeks and he's done the work he would have usually done in half the time because of the man who occupies the table before his desk.

His words are monitored. Catalogued. Carefully copied down by the irritable attendant.

Frollo hates the absolute frustration of it all. Bonhomme is a nuisance, a hindrance to his affairs. Without him, his city would be free of the gypsies that threaten and torment the people with their base, heathen vulgarity.

His hands clench at his chair-arms, as he imagines simply ordering the man's head removed. The dark vision swirls before him, all too tempting as the man looks up, opens his mouth, and says in that practically whiny tone, "What is your intended proposal for Rue de Elysier? Can the men really be spared to consistently guard that area day and night?"

He grits his teeth, holding back the growl of fury that bubbles in his chest. "Rue de Elysier is a virtual cesspool of prostitution and illicit activities. Soldiers are required in order to dispel any further activity. When I feel it is purged, then they may leave," Frollo replies icily.

Bonhomme adjusts his spectacles with a noticeably shaky hand. At least the man bothered to look frightened of him. Frollo does not bother to disguise the smug smirk that twists his features, one that has Bonhomme shivering in fear.

"But... you have a battalion! Surely there's s-something else they can do..." Bonhomme stammers.

Frollo drums his fingers militantly on his desk, the sound as intimidating as the march of his men. His eyes still blaze ferociously beneath furrowed brows, something that Bonhomme thought would fade after his imprisonment had ended.

But the hunger in his eyes that glints coldly in the candlelight isn't for food as he had originally thought. It's for something much more terrifying. Damnation of souls, perhaps.

"Have you ever been to Rue de Elysier in its magnificent apex of filth?" Frollo comments, his fingers still drumming consistently upon dark wood.

Bonhomme quickly shakes his head.

"I thought not. It is indeed most vile. The women, if they can be called women, misuse and manipulate the disgusting corporeal weaknesses of mankind." As his mouth screws into a grimace of disgust, Bonhomme's gaze furrows with concern.

Anger sparks to life in his dark eyes as his words, sharp as knives, fling with frightening accuracy. "They have no redeemable quality whatsoever. So it is a certain necessity for them to be punished, whether through arrest, or through the removal of their key economic benefits."

As usual, the minister renders the man speechless. His mouth flaps open unbecomingly as his words fail him.

"Fine... but... this is... temporary," Bonhomme replies shakily.

As the two men eye each other suspiciously, Frollo hears the distant, rumbling tone of the bells chiming the hour. Midnight.

Bonhomme noticeably yawns, rubbing at his tired eyes.

Frollo sees an opportunity. "You look quite weary monsieur. Perhaps rest would be beneficial to you."

Bonhomme's eyes are bleary with sleep. Unfortunately, it seems that the judge has no desire for sleep himself. These past six weeks have been long indeed.

"I must be present... for all... motions," Bonhomme says, stifling another enormous jaw cracking yawn.

"I will present such motions to you in the morning. I still have much to do, and you are quite useless to me if you doze off," Frollo clips harshly, his gaze cold.

Bonhomme considers his options, all the while, the judge inwardly appeals to God that he will simply leave.

To Frollo's relief, he rises from his chair, taking his notes with him. "I shall see you early tomorrow, minister. Hopefully I'll be much more alert!" he pipes eagerly, only for his eyes to meet Frollo's withering glare.

Bonhomme's smile slips away, and he turns, exiting into the corridor.

Frollo cannot disguise the sigh of relief that exhales from his lungs. Alone at last.

His eyes glance down at the orderly text, and he bends down once more to scratch his quill.

Minutes tick by, and Frollo is made aware of just how quiet the Palace of Justice can be. After so much time spent with Bonhomme and his irritating comments, he had nearly forgotten the peace of solitude.

Unfortunately, he underestimates just how drowsy silence can make an individual. As he tries to forge on with his work, his eyelids feel heavy, the text blurring on its own accord. Scowling at his own sloth, he attempts to refocus.

But in the silence of his study, Frollo slowly succumbs to his own weariness... drifting into a hazy, untamed world of dreams.

_Rue de Elisier. _

_The familiar street twists before him, the stones dull in the ominous light. The air is heavy, so very heavy. Like smoke._

_He looks up to see a red, fiery sky, beautifully terrible. _

_ "__Minister..."_

_A husky voice beckons to him. His gaze shifts... and she is there, leaning suggestively against one of the walls before him. _

_Her cat-like green eyes consume him, bewitching his soul, snaring him in. And suddenly she is before him, black curls tossed wildly around her head, hips moving fluidly. "I have a price you know..." she whispers in his ear. _

_Her cunning hand squeezes his crotch, and her wet lips press to his neck and ears. _

_ "__Would you like that Claude? Would you like to buy your whore?" she hisses. _

_Her clothes are gone and she pounces above him, her white teeth flashing as a mocking, throaty laugh erupts uncouthly from her mouth. Her claws tear at his clothes, ripping and tearing as a hellish red sky burns behind her._

And he jolts awake with a groan.

He pants and shakes in his chair, his heart beating so violently it threatened to escape his ribcage. Sweat trickles down his brow, cold and shocking against his feverish skin.

Frollo presses taut fingers against his eyes, rubbing viciously against closed eyelids. _You fool, you weak old fool!_ He berates himself.

Her face, her lurid dance, her flashing teeth- they flicker on the inside of his closed lids, tormenting him, luring him. Her vulgarity startles him, and yet excites him just the same, as proven by the tightening sensation in his groin.

For six weeks, he has suppressed the memories of the past. Well, attempted to. But sleep has become a silent, subtle enemy, planting images and deeds within his mind. He sees the moment at the bell-tower over and over. He can feel her soft body under his own every night.

Good Lord, why is he not free? Why does she still appear before him?

The witch, the demon, the tormentor. And yet he wishes to thread his own fingers through that glorious hair, press his own lips to her own.

He struggles to stand, his whole body shivering from the cold sweat that drenches his robes. _Disgusting, absolutely disgusting!_ He thinks viciously, rubbing at his face, as if to wipe away her stain that corrupts him so. The sin that evidences himself by the hard swelling beneath his breeches. He clenches at the arms of his chair, willing himself to soften. He cannot sin, cannot blemish himself because of her vicious spell.

The clamor of his blood never ceases because of her, driving him mad in all idle moments.

To distract himself, Frollo moves to the windows and peeks behind the curtains to see a coldly lit, grey sky. It's morning. He's slept away his precious time.

His jaw clenches as his eyes survey his city. He tries to focus on the task at hand, drill through the routines he must perform today.

But her eyes still flash in his mind. And he can't help but feel that he is running. Fleeing from her specter that haunts his every step, like his own shadow.

He presses his forehead against the cold windowpanes, wishing that it would end. The paranoia, the dreams, the feeling of always being hunted.

He sees their prying eyes when he gives the soldiers orders. Their eyes that accuse him, that mistrust his actions at each turn. He feels the hostility of Parisians where there was once respect.

And then there is the realm of his own mind Frollo decides he is no coward. He refuses to be afraid of something as foolish as his own subconscious. But he still begs for the answer to the question-why _does_ he feel as if he's running from something? It's the most confusing, alarming emotion that has steadily increased over these past weeks. She's gone. Left. Never to return. And yet... The feeling of someone at his back, snapping at his heels still presses him. It drives him to work longer hours and stay awake for as long as necessary, if only to avoid the claustrophobic sensation of being trapped that falls upon him in his idle moments.

And yet, despite the work, despite his industrious and logical nature, he knows one fact with a frightening clarity that would terrify more sane men.

Something is coming for him.

xxx

Thanks for reading! Please review! -Cgal


	6. Chapter 5

For Esmeralda, time passes slowly, ambling about like an oxen with its cart.

As the days lazily blur into each other, Esmeralda can't help but become restless. Of course there are moments of excitement that punctuate her time: Rosa goes into labor shortly after her return, Clopin's antics never cease to amuse her, and Quasi's burgeoning romance with the mystery Madeleine slowly but surely progresses.

But as other people explode in a chaotic flurry of activity around her... she feels detached. As if she is separate from the events around her, as if her own lifeline is cut from the coiled knot of the Court's.

She hears the people's whispers. How she doesn't smile like she used to. How she hides in fear of the minister. Their looks of pity and sympathy are hard to take in excess. At first she only nods and smiles at their well-meaning, but tiring comments.

But as days turn to weeks, and their comments grow more and more melodramatic, Esmeralda begins to dislike the attention. She just wants to move on with it, be done with it all. It's bad enough Frollo's minister. But being treated like a forever-victim just feels degrading.

So she avoids them. She goes off on her own, reckless as it may be. She of course avoids the hours he's patrolling... but she goes out nonetheless. She even dances a bit, trying to earn her keep. Trying not to feel useless.

She tries to pretend to be the charming dancer of before. But ... it's hard, after she remembers it was her dance that caused a madman to be formed, and a city to be burned.

She shouldn't blame herself. It wasn't her damn fault, for Christ's sake.

But she still feels empty.

It sure doesn't help that the nightmares keep her up night after night.

After another sleepless night, Esmeralda figures it's time to visit an old friend again.

Xxx

"Esmeralda! How are you?"

Phoebus stands behind the open door, grinning widely at her. Esmeralda gives him a small half-smile from beneath her cloak. "I'm well. Except, I just realized-I never got to meet Aurore," she says.

"Well, come on in! I think Fleur can check with the wet nurse to see when she's up," Phoebus replies enthusiastically.

Esmeralda follows inside, conscious of just how big the place is. As she stares up at the heavy tapestries that line the world, she realizes how out of place she must appear to be.

Shaking off any nagging insecurities, she chooses to hasten her stride until she's side by side with him. "You know I didn't actually expect this place to not be guarded, seeing as how Fleur's mother is about things," Esmeralda comments, her green eyes wandering over the simple, yet tasteful artifacts that line the walls.

"Oh, guards would just be ridiculous. Besides, as Captain of the guard I think I provide some protection, don't ya think?" he says.

"Sure. You are _so_ intimidating," she deadpans sarcastically, rolling her eyes.

"Hey! Watch it!" he says folding his arms and sniffing at the slight.

"Calm down, I was only joking!" she teases, shoving at his arm.

Phoebus shakes his head, but smiles all the same.

"How have you been? Haven't seen you in a couple of weeks. You been busy?" he asks politely.

Esmeralda nearly snorts. "Well, busy with chores around the court. Which are the most boring kind. Clopin isn't so keen on me going out."

"Let me guess, you disobey him at every turn?"

"Of course!" she fires back, smirking.

"Hmmm," Phoebus hums back, sitting down on one of the many plush chairs that litter the sitting room.

Esmeralda still stands, too restless to sit. She instead chooses to peer at the small dolls that are posed on one of the tables.

"Besides, I've been good. No one but the Court, you, and Quasi know that I'm back. You haven't heard any reports of me causing chaos, have you?" she says pointedly, looking up at him with lively eyes.

"Nope. Which I found surprising... and relieving. It's a bit of a chore to chase after you, by the way. No picnic," he says humorously.

Esmeralda unlatches her cloak, shaking out her voluminous curls. "No, I've just been trying to see Quasi and dance as much as I can... oh! Did you hear about Quasimodo's new friend?" she says excitedly, sitting in the chair across from him.

"You mean the little blonde down at the pushcarts?" Phoebus says warmly.

Esmeralda smiles softly. "I'm just... happy that he's trying." Her gaze then darkens. "If she hurts him though..." Esmeralda clucks her tongue and shakes her head in derision.

"I'd hate for anyone to cross Quasimodo. Facing you would be terrifying," he says with a shudder. Esmeralda frowns at him.

"Am I really so intimidating? I thought I was most fun," she says teasingly.

"Well, yes, sure you are... it's just... well, Esmeralda, have you ever seen what happens when you get mad?" Phoebus says, laughing.

Esmeralda folds her arms, and despite herself, cracks a smile. "Well, not all fo us can be laid back all the time!" she exclaims, and he grins.

"Phoebus? Who's here?"

A blonde, waif-like woman glides into the room. Her eyes fall on Esmeralda, and widen. "Oh! Hello," she says softly, giving a polite, if restrained smile.

Esmeralda grins back and stands. "Good to see you Fleur! Congratulations on Aurore, when Phoebus mentioned her, I just couldn't wait to meet the little princess," Esmeralda says mirthfully, nodding her head at the young mother.

Fleur, as per usual, is quiet. Not at all rude, but quiet. "The nurse says she's up. I'll go fetch her," she murmurs softly.

Phoebus's face lights up. "Oh you're gonna love her! All smiles and rosy-cheeks, she's absolutely adorable like her mother," he says and Fleur blushes pink.

Esmeralda stifles another eye-roll at his almost sickeningly sweet tone, but grins anyway. Fleur slips from the room, walking to the other side of the house to fetch the child.

"Adorable like her mother?" she whispers teasingly.

"What?!" he exclaims.

"Nothing... it's just so... sweet," she murmurs, a mocking smile on her lips.

Fleur quickly comes back, holding a small bundle in her arms, wet-nurse trailing close behind her. Fleur rocks the babe back and forth so gently, as if Aurore were made of porcelain rather than flesh. "She slept for a long time Madame. I don't believe she's hungry," says the woman, a little older than Fleur herself.

"Thank you Marion. I'll call you should you be needed," Fleur replies.

The nurse curtsies, her brown eyes glancing momentarily at the dark-skinned woman, obviously Romani. She frowns, and Esmeralda only has to guess at the flurry of disapproval that must buzz in her head.

The nurse leaves and Phoebus immediately jostles over to Fleur's side, eyes peering eagerly at the small, wriggling bundle. A dopey grin stretches his cheeks, and Esmeralda must admit, it's absolutely precious to see the hulking captain wiggle his finger in the little one's face, cooing and nearly giggling.

Fleur's eyes flicker up to Esmeralda, warmth in her usually cool blue gaze. "Want to say hello, Aurore?" Fleur murmurs softly. The baby gurgles in response, and Esmeralda can't help but draw near the couple.

Esmeralda instinctively smiles as the little pink face comes into view. Aurore flails and screams in delight, giving a toothless smile. "For once Phoebus is right. She's adorable," she comments. Fleur nearly gasps at the comment, while Phoebus rolls his eyes.

Esmeralda knows how defensive mothers are of their babes. So she holds off on asking to hold Aurore, choosing instead to give her finger to the pink, squishy baby, and let Aurore grip it with a chubby hand. A chuckle rumbles in her chest and she looks up at Fleur. "How old is she?"

"About three months," Fleur replies, a soft little smile appearing on her pink lips. She slowly walks over to the divan and sinks into the cushions, eyes never leaving her child's face. Phoebus instantly sits with her, and Esmeralda has to admit that they make a pretty couple, cooing over their baby.

She smiles, in no way annoyed that they've seemed to forget she's there. Esmeralda sits on the chair across from them, leaning forward and placing her jaw on her palm.

The next hour passes in a blur as the baby gurgles and screeches happily, while Fleur engages in polite conversation with Esmeralda. It may be restrained, but Esmeralda doesn't mind. It's not as if Fleur is trying to be aloof, it's simply the situation.

Being the former beloved of her husband has to be a bit awkward, she thinks to herself. Well, a lot of emphasis had to be put on former, since it was her tht ended it.

The conversation turns to politics, and the recent succession of kings. Something about Louis or some other monarch. It's not that politics bores her; it's just that it really doesn't matter who's in power, they're sure to run things the same way anyway.

The baby eventually bursts into tears, and Fleur departs from the room to fetch Marion. Phoebus, still smiling, leans back against the couch. "She's a princess, isn't she?" he comments.

"I'm sure," Esmeralda replies, smiling at him.

She turns to the doorway where Fleur disappeared, and says brightly, "You two seem to getting along quite well."

Phoebus shrugs his shoulders and simply grunts in agreement.

"Come on, she's absolutely sweet. Don't give me that," she teases.

"Well, it was bit... awkward the first few months...Not that you would know, you didn't stick around after the wedding," he comments.

"I guess I just wanted to skip to your happy ending. All that pesky getting-to-know-your-own-wife-because-of-an-arranged-marriage gets a little old to the casual viewer," Esmeralda replies wryly.

Phoebus folds his arms. "I'm assuming that you wanted to talk about something other than my marriage Esmeralda..." he quickly deflects.

"I just wanted to see you. The Court's a bit claustrophobic," she comments vaguely.

Phoebus frowns and studies her. "Are you okay, Es? You seem... out of sorts," he comments reluctantly.

Esmeralda automatically stiffens, her shoulders tensing as the personal question is hurled towards her. "I'm fine... really I am! I just...like everyone else, Frollo being minister puts a damper on things," she says casually.

His eyes beneath furrowed brows glint in concern. "Is there anything you want to talk about?"

She opens her mouth, but pitiful excuses come flying out. "No. Jesus Christ, why does everybody look at me and see a walking disaster? I'm fine! I faced down Frollo once, I could probably do it again," she says cockily.

"That type of talk gets you in trouble," Phoebus counters, folding his hands over his lap.

Esmeralda glares at him pointedly. "I am fine, Phoebus."

I just have nightmares every night and visions of that one night every time I set foot out of the Court.

She shakes off her thoughts.

"You can talk to me about it, Esmeralda... really, you can..."

"Goddammit what is with you people? I'm fine. I don't need any help. I'm not some poor unfortunate victim! In fact, for once I'd just like to stop talking about him. If I hear that bastard's name one more time, I will honestly begin to start throwing punches!" she growls, banging her fist against her knee.

Phoebus reels back, mouth hanging open dumbly at her outburst. "What d-do you want to talk about then?" he fumbled with his words, his tongue wielded as clumsily as a toddler's first steps.

"Anything!" she shouts, her voice sharp as an arrowhead.

Phoebus's mouth hangs open for so long, she swears bird could have laid eggs within it. Then, he blurts out dumbly, "The weather?"

Esmeralda's retorts die in her throat as she takes in his terrified, slack-jawed expression.

The tension is palpable in the air...

She realizes how ridiculous the whole exchange has been... and bursts into laughter bordering on hysterical. After nights of staying awake on her mat, after days of being pushed to a literal breaking point... she can't help but just laugh.

Phoebus still sits there openmouthed, even more painfully confused as her shoulders and chest convulse up and down as throaty, yet harsh laughter erupts from her mouth. "Ummmm..."

Esmeralda is doubled over in laughter, tears forming at the corners of her clenched eyelids.

"Oh my... I just... I'm just..." she gasps out, flopping against the back fo the couch. She has no idea why she laughs... but it feels a whole lot better than sobbing.

Phoebus is still baffled, and slowly tries to form a response to the convulsing woman on his couch.

He chooses the words. "You know what I said before about you being terrifying when you're angry?" he says hoarsely.

Esmeralda nearly hiccups, "Yes?"

"I take it back. This is fucking terrifying," he laughs shakily, and that simply sends her into another spasm of hysterical giggles.

"I would apologize... except th-this feels a lot better th-than snapping at you... s-so you better thank me a-actually," she exclaims brightly.

Phoebus is silent for a moment. But his face splits into a wide, sheepish grin and he laughs with her, both of them surrendering to a need to make things lighter, to ease the unbearable tension that clouded the air moments before.

Esmeralda loses herself to the humor of the moment, surrenders to the hysterical, sob-like guffaws that heave her chest, that make it painful to breathe. As Phoebus joins in with his rough chuckles, a small voice at the back of her head wonders if this is simply her defense against prying questions. If she's avoiding the issue, deflecting with her own nature of laughing the face of danger.

It's a brief musing that attempts to sober her up. But she's drunk on her own hysteria, and she wants to simply forget that when she goes home tonight, she'll have to act as a fugitive in the streets. She just wants to pretend she's normal, pretend that she's not driving herself insane with her own nightmares.

Fleur enters back into the room, and instantly looks baffled. Esmeralda suddenly snaps her lips over her teeth, waiting for some comment of propriety, on how rude her laughter is.

Instead, she says in a surprisingly dry tone, "I suppose you found something to amuse yourselves with?" and then a small smile, much less cool then her perfunctory grins, quirks up the corners of her lips.

Xxx

The light streaming in through the open windows slowly deepens in color, from bright yellow, to burnt orange, to a brilliant fuschia. The conversation, although now freely flowing despite her earlier hysteria, soon must end. Esmeralda knows this as the sun dips lower, disappearing behind one of the edifices adjacent.

As Phoebus and Fleur show her to the door, she tries to keep the grin in place on her face. She feels happier, yes. But in anticipation of hiding herself once again, that smile seems like a mask, one that hides, but is so fragile, on the point of cracking in two.

"Thank you so much for letting me see Aurore. I hope that a future visit would be welcome?" she asks.

Before Phoebus can answer, Fleur herself says, "I can see no reason why not." Taken aback by her sudden warmth, Esmeralda blinks, then shoots her a grin. "Perhaps I'll come when that lug is out patrolling. We can gossip about him until the cows come home," Esmeralda replies humorously, pulling on her hood and slowly picking up her cane from it's place leaning on the wall.

Fleur doesn't say anything, but hides her giggles behind a tiny white hand.

Phoebus's eyes slide over from his wife's to Esmeralda's. And she can see some foreboding in that gaze. He still isn't quite done being afraid for her.

"Esmeralda-" he begins but she soon cuts him off.

"I know it's Sunday, Phoebus. I can tell time," she replies.

Evening mass at Notre Dame. Not that she would ever go. "I'll stay away, promise," she replies.

Phoebus bobs his head once at her assurance, an action that feels forced to her. Of course he doesn't believe her.

But she doesn't bring up her nagging suspicion, and instead bids them goodbye.

As she hobbles down the familiar path towards home, she passes by the alleyway that leads directly to Our Lady herself.

For some reason, Esmeralda halts, her legs no longer moving mechanically beneath her torso. Notre Dame is so massive, she can just see the top of the building peeking over above the other rooftops.

The alleyway seems to beckon to her, a gaping entrance to a place she shouldn't go. Her fingers flex at her sides as a nervous energy bubbles beneath the surface, a morbid curiosity that sends her head reeling.

Evening mass will start soon. And he's sure to be on time.

She chews on her lower lip, inwardly debating with herself whether she should move forward. Why?! What good would it do? She inwardly screams, attempting to shake off the pervasive urge to see her monster face to face.

As she stares longer and longer, her legs begin to move, urged forward by the burning questions that blaze through her mind.

Esmeralda keeps hobbling, the fear of being caught surging through her veins.

She sits, crouched at the very entrance of the alleyway to the square, daring a small peek behind the wall.

Nobles of all shapes and sizes stream smoothly into the open doors of Notre Dame, careening past the pockmarked, the sick, the weak... those that sit far in back of the sanctuary.

He's nowhere to be found. She still has time to leave. To forget this dangerous urge to see her nightmare.

Time passes, and the square empties considerably, until she's left staring at bare, numerous steps, and a darkened space. Leave, urges her mind, but she stays put, unable to wrench her eyes from the square. She can't look away.

She heard the harsh clip clop of horse's hooves ring out, and stiffens.

His carriage comes into view, a small, severe looking box that looks as much like a prison as the Palace of Justice itself. Soldiers flank it on all sides, creating an orderly procession. Her knuckles turn white as she grips her hands at her sides, clenching as her heart pounds furiously in her chest. Despite her bravery, despite convincing herself she's safe hiding in the shadows... her heart leaps into her throat as one of the soldier's opens the door of the metal box.

She ducks her head, but shame forces her to raise her head once more. No. She cannot turn away because of her own fear. She hugs her knees to her chest, becoming as small as possible... while still staring at the dark figure that exits the carriage.

He wears the same clothes. Triangular chaperon. Dark, flowing robes of heavy velvet. Black boots that thud against the stone ground. She cannot see his face, only the back of his head.

His stride is slow, ominous. But there's a fluidity in his gait that resembles that a prowling jungle cat-smooth, quick to strike, dangerous. One that sets her teeth on edge and cling to the cobblestones with shaking hands.

But then he stops, halting just before the door. Esmeralda leans forward... only to see him slightly cock his head in her direction.

_He knows. He knows!_ She thinks, panicking. She can't move, can't run. Her limbs have become stone, useless.

_Fire. Heat. Unbearable heat. Flames inches from her feet, scorching her shift. Smoke clouding the air, choking her..._

_Quasimodo falling, slipping from her quivering hands, why oh why couldn't she save him?_

_Frollo on top of her, pressing into her insistently, cornering her into the stone floors. She was squirming, she was screaming, no one was coming, why could no one hear her? _

_His face... oh his face was terrible. His smile seemed feral, a wild beast cornering his prey. His barking laugh _

_She screamed as his hands reached for her clothes. Terrible hands, that bruise, that pinch, that rove uninhibited. He mashes his lips over her mouth, pressing, hurting, bruising her lips. _

The memories surge, one after the other, leaving her blind and deaf to anything else. "Please stop, please stop," she chokes out, chest heaving as she hyperventilates, somehow unable to breathe enough air into her starving lungs.

_STOP IT!_ She inwardly screams.

And then, it's gone.

Panting and rocking on her heels, she realizes that she's utterly alone. He hasn't found her. In fact... when she looks into the square... he's gone. Already entered the cathedral.

She raises a hand to her face to feel the wet tears that leave their stain on her cheeks. She feels as if she's just surfaced from ice cold water, disoriented, dizzy, and somehow still drowning.

Esmeralda claps her hands over her eyes, shuddering. No. It was getting worse. Far worse.

What was wrong with her?! She could barely leave the Court without crippling fear... and then, in the first sign of danger, she blacked out and was left a quivering, crying mess.

Why did it have to b her? Why couldn't he have chased after someone else, ruined someone else's life? It's a selfish thought, one that drips with an egotism that she really hates. But as she hugs her knees to her chest, stifling tears of hysteria from dripping down her face, she can't help but wonder why.

Esmeralda stays huddled against the wall... until she realizes that night has quickly fallen. Clopin will be waiting.

She roughly wipes at the tears on her face, ashamed at how weak she has become. Esmeralda slowly stands, wavering a little on her feet. She does not look back at Notre Dame, that imposing edifice, as she hobbles away, head down, tear streaks drying on her face.

Xxx

The week passes even slower, as Esmeralda chooses to stay in the Court. Even Clopin notices her changing mood, imploring her welfare at every interval.

Esmeralda knows she can't hide here forever, stay in the confines of her home. She's too restless despite the paranoia and dread that seem to haunt her footsteps. She never was one to stay still.

So she crushes down her fear into a small, unseen corner of her mind, and walks outside. Still disguises of course. But at least outside.

For a few moments she begins to feel normal. The sun is hanging high in the sky, the marketplaces are full of familiar faces that banter and shout at each other in a way that triggers better memories.

But as she turns down a less traveled street, she sees a commotion ahead.

A familiar voice echoes in her ears. "Let go of me!"

Esmeralda turns her glance to Rosa, gripping tightly to a sack. "You stole em!" Esmeralda hears one of the soldier's say, as well as other accusatory snatches that instantly have her up in arms.

She strides forward... only to remember. She's a ghost. She cannot intervene, else the soldiers report her to Frollo.

So she watches, stomach clenching in unease as the men surround the poor woman. While others walk away she stays paralyzed, feet rooted to the ground. _Walk away,_ urges the cowardly voice, the one that rationalizes all too well the cost of speaking again.

_Do you want to be caught? _She thinks. However noble her actions were viewed as during the festival, they led to fire, disaster, death.

If she speaks now, what is the cost?

One of the men grips the frail woman's arm, throwing her to the ground, and spitting. "Gypsy cur!" he swears, and the men crowd around her.

How many times has this scene played before her? A woman, desperate for food, stealing whatever little she can get her hands on. Soldiers catching her. Soldiers closing in, like hounds to a wounded prey.

Anger boils within her, hot unpredictable and impulsive. Esmeralda still stares, biting her lip to keep from screaming in fury when she sees them close in.

Rosa wails, a pitiful sound, and something inside of her snaps.

Esmeralda runs, sprints even, to the scene, dagger out. "Stop!" she demands, and with greater strength than her body seems capable of, she shoves one of the brutes out of the way, sending him careening into the cobblestones of the streets.

They all mutter and cry out in surprise and fury, the dogs enraged that their precious meal has been challenged by a mere slip of a girl. Esmeralda kneels down to the fallen woman who now curls in on herself on the cobblestones, whimpering in pain. Anger surges, its metallic, hot taste on her tongue as she turns back to the men, teeth bared like some animal. "Get away from her, now!" she spits.

Of course they don't listen. Men like them aren't used to being ordered around by people smaller than them. The largest of them, obviously the leader leans over to her, lips twisted in a smile. "Oh, so we have another one who wants to have some fun, eh?" he says coarsely, flecks of spittle flying from his mouth and landing on her person.

Esmeralda raises her knife, body tense and ready for a skirmish. "That's what you think she is? Fun? Just some toy to play with? How dare you call yourselves men of the law when you simply torment the very people you protect!" she shouts, voice hoarse and strong.

"The bitch has some bite, eh? I expected that from you lot. Gypsy women. If you can't sleep with 'em, you fight with 'em. Sometimes at the same time," he says, and his companions nod and guffaw in agreement.

Anger floods her, and she can hardly see through the red mist that clouds her vision. But her tongue is not impeded, as she mockingly laughs in their faces, all the while keeping the fallen woman behind her. "Well, I can hardly see why any woman would want to sleep with you. Especially when such a huge knife," she motions to his weapon, then continues with a smirk, "belies a man who is, ah, overcompensating for _something_."

His eyes widen and the men around him gasp in shock at her very words. He clenches his fists, and yet, Esmeralda does not cringe or back down. For the first time, she feels at one with her actions. Her heart beats fast not in fear but in anticipation of what is to come.

"Boys, you know what to do," he says roughly, glaring at the beautiful yet terrible woman who smirks with a red lipped pout. Esmeralda's grin is wider, and she raises her knife.

The high whinny of a horse shocks all of them from their actions, and Esmeralda blinks as the men back away from her and turn to look up the street. Baffled, she bends down to Rosa. "Are you all right? Can you stand?" Esmeralda whispers.

Quivering in fear, she nods and slowly picks herself up, leaning on her shoulder. Propping up the shaken mother, Esmeralda follows the glances of the men to a man who rides towards them on horseback.

Instantly, her blood runs ice cold, and she freezes on the spot, eyes wide.

Claude Frollo now sits atop his fearsome steed, as nightmarish as her mind had always imagined. The air leaves her lungs, and she instantly pulls her hood down. No. No. She can't be found.  
>"We have to run!" she whispers to Rosa. But just as they are about to take off, strong arms wrench the two women apart and drag them forward. Esmeralda struggles, attempting to slash out with her knife.<p>

"We were arresting this woman for stealing medicine, minister... and this woman was trying to stop us!" the leader says, pointing at the two women.

Frollo stares down at the brutish troops that grip the two women. One is obviously a gypsy, her dark skin and coarse hair a dead giveaway. The other one was cloaked, the "savior" of the other. Frollo resists the urge to scoff. How heroic. One rat defends the other of its kin. It would be better for the cloaked one to simply leave. _What a fool. _

"Bring them forward," he says with a casual flick of his jeweled hand.

Esmeralda's heart leaps into her throat as the men push her. She wrenches her cloak hood down. She can't see him. But the deep, imposing baritone rumble tells her it's him.

Inwardly, she curses herself for being so impulsive. But as her eyes see the young mother at the periphery of her vision, she forces herself to not feel so resentful. _You chose this. You've made your bed-now lie in it,_ she thinks, all the while eyeing the soldiers, imagining a way out.

The woman (he assumes it's a woman because of their skirts) looks downward, cloak yanked on tight. The high, shaking voice of the other one pipes up. "Please, monsieur I beg of you! Medicines are expensive! My child is sick, we don't know what-"

"Silence her," Frollo says icily, and one of the soldiers throws a devastating blow to her jaw.

Incensed by the violence, Esmeralda cannot stifle her tongue any longer. "You would strike a woman in chains? You have fallen far from honor, judge. In my family, you don't strike someone weaker than you," she finally says.

The husky voice of the woman slices through his body like an assassin's blade, sharp and precise. Frollo stiffens as the voice registers as familiar. _Justice! She screams, a blade in hand, green eyes glinting with fury. _

"Unmask her!' Frollo orders, and the men wrench off the hood to reveal the face of Esmeralda.

xxx

DUN DUN DUUUUN! Sorry, couldn't resist ;) Thanks to everyone who is reading and reviewing! As the school year is starting back up, updates will be less frequent, but I will be continuing on. Thanks again! -Cgal


	7. Chapter 6

The confirmation of his suspicion was still so shocking, he could hardly speak.

There she is, angry, fierce, and very much _alive_. Not gone, as the Captain had assured, but right under his eyes. Instantly, he looks back on all his patrols. How many times was she there in the shadows, plotting his downfall? How many times had she slipped through the city, undetected by his eyes and ears?

She stares up at him expectantly, awaiting his words. But she is the very being who has taken his words from him. She has stolen his voice, his will, his mind.

Esmeralda's eyes affix on the very man who has haunted her nightmares. Fear, cold, deep fear, settles in her body, heavy as lead. But she forces herself to look in his eyes, to not have the irrational fear that he may consume her very form through only his glance.

He's just as terrible as she remembers. Perhaps more gaunt. But still terrible, his face angular and pale as marble. His eyes are dark, soulless things that remind of a never ending hole. They just keep going, and going, deeper and deeper, with no way out.

"Ah." He utters. He knows how the men look at him expectantly, wondering what sort of tongue-lashing he will give this criminal.

But the words that spring to the tip of his tongue betray his past. The past he wishes to bury and erase from the men's minds. He wishes to take her face in his hands and strike her, over and over. Let her feel a fraction of what she had put him through. _You foul, foul harlot. You conjurer of sin. You bitch. Have you no shame, walking before me, wagging your tongue so mockingly?_

But he restrains the vile words from leaving his mouth. Instead he turns his intense, furrowed gaze upon her and chooses intimidation above the violent clamor in his blood.

"The gypsy Esmeralda. What an unexpected surprise! Although... how very _expected_ that you would interrupt the processes of justice yet again," he says in a dangerous, lilting voice.

His mocking words send ice-cold chills down her spine, from which she involuntarily shivers. But she stares him down, keeping her fear locked behind a hostile stare and a sharp snarl. "Oh, I'm simply aiding you, dear judge. These men were harassing this woman! She would be dead if I hadn't stepped in," she says fiercely, warding off the cold, consuming feeling that threatens to overwhelm her senses.

Green and obsidian orbs connect in a mutual glare. The air around them crackles with tension. The soldiers were suddenly silent. Esmeralda. The rumored gypsy queen. Facing off against Frollo. Their eyes flickered from man to woman, unsure as to what would actually happen.

"Harassment implies a victim. The only victim in this situation is Monsieur Beacop. That wretch stole valued goods. And yet you defend her. How typical of a woman of your race," he says harshly, voice edged with a bitterness that makes her skin crawl.

"I think... this discussion is over," she says.

And with a quick, jerking movement, she takes out the heavy piece of stone from Notre Dame from her bag and hurls it at the horse.

The beast rears up, causing chaos in its wake. Frollo lets out a cry of outrage, struggling with the reins as the horse kicks out its front legs, causing the men to scatter. Esmeralda slips through the fleeing soldiers to the woman and drags her away, sprinting as fast as possible.

When Frollo finally calms the steed, his head snaps up to find that she had disappeared once more. Foul oaths fall from his lips and he barks to his men, "Find her!"

The soldiers cower before the madman before him and set after her. Frollo's dark eyes turn to where she has fled, down one of the many alleyways. With a vicious snap of the reigns, the horse vaults forward, careening them both down the streets of Paris.

He outstrips the soldiers, charging forward as one thing burnt clearly in his mind: She shall not escape this time! The stench of his own failure urges him onward, pricks his soul like a hot pinpoint, commanding him to kick the steed harder, race faster.

He turns down the alleyway, blood rushing hot in his veins and anger burning hotter. Come and face me! He demands, mentally screaming into the twisted recesses of Paris.

He keeps riding, the streets becoming a blur of cobblestones, a gray, dizzying mass.

But although he thinks himself hot on her trail... Esmeralda is nowhere to be found.

His eyes wildly dart from street to street, trying to find any sign of movement.

But all he can hear is the normal goings on, the routine of each day.

Esmeralda watches from her hiding spot, keeping one hand clasped on the woman's mouth. From behind the mead barrels, she sees Frollo pull at the reins and halt the beast. For a moment, she holds her breath, sure that such a monster like him can smell the very exhales she emits.

She curses her very heart, thundering in her chest. As his head swivels like that of a vigilant hawk, she grips her knife tight. Just come closer, she dares, all while the tendrils of panic clutch her heart.

For a moment, the minister scrutinizes the multiple pathways, frustration setting his teeth on edge. _No. No!_

He couldn't have lost her again. He couldn't fail once more. He hears soldiers before him. He whips himself around, teeth bared in an intimidating snarl. "Split up! Do not rest until the gypsy girl is found!" he spits out.

Only one of them has the gall to answer back. "Which-which one, sir?"

"Esmeralda!" he snarls, the name uttered like a foul curse. The men's eyes are wide with fear as they each charge down the different corridors.

xxx

During their brief distraction, Esmeralda tears down the alleyway, dragging the woman behind her. Ducking through the most twisted and narrow of paths, she eventually finds her way to the Notre Dame.

The situation is eerily similar to before; but she tries not to think of how her insides clench in panic as she bursts through the wooden door, crying "Sanctuary."

The archdeacon's kindly blue eyes meet her own. He nods to them both, knowing her face, knowing the gypsy girl who has been so kind to the bell-ringer above.

A silent agreement passes through woman of the streets and man of God, and Esmeralda tugs Rosa up to the bell-tower. "We'll have to stay here for the night. It's too dangerous to go to the Court after he's seen me," she says rapidly, words flying faster than the quickest of winds from her mouth."

Rosa is pale and sweating, the exertions of today clearly draining. "Esmeralda... you... you know what this means! Frollo... he knows-"

"That I'm in Paris, yes, Rosa, I think he bloody knows it!" she snaps, stress evident in her clenched fists and panicked tone.

Quasimodo hears the footsteps and stands atop the ladder. "Esmeralda?" he calls out cautiously, not recognizing the woman at his friend's side.

Rosa's face pales even more. Esmeralda's gaze snaps to Quasi's. "Rosa, Quasi, Quasi, Rosa," she rattles off in introduction, brushing past the bell-ringer.

The hunchback lopes after her, features twisted in puzzlement. "Esmeralda, what's happening?" he asks, her panic so clear and terrifying to him.

Esmeralda breathes in, trying to calm herself. Trying not to feel as if death now haunts her footsteps, following her as closely as her own shadow.

The dread is overwhelming. She can just picture his face, his gaunt, terrible face, twisted in such malice towards her. Bile rises in her throat, bitter and vile tasting.

He asked her a question, She had nearly forgotten in her self absorption. Turning to her friend, she tries to remain calm... but she of all people can stop the absolute fury and fear from trickling into her voice.

"Frollo's seen me. He knows I'm in Paris. I had to run, and Rosa and I claimed sanctuary," she says resolutely, arms folded tight over her chest.

Quasimodo's usually pink face turns absolutely ghostly pale. "Oh... Oh no..." he stammers, in a voice barely above a whisper.

Rosa meanwhile, sits on the abandoned stool in the corner, wringing her hands, muttering apologies. "I shouldn't have stolen from Beacop. It was too risky... I-I never meaned to get you into trouble," she says woefully.

"Rosa, it's not your fault. I probably would have gotten into trouble eventually," Esmeralda sighs, at last admitting the one truth she knew to be true.

At the corner of her eye, she sees a quick movement. Quasimodo stands in front of them. "Come with me. Please," he says purposefully. Rosa shakily stands, and Esmeralda tugs her along as the bell-ringer leads them up into the bell-loft. "We have to find somewhere for you to hide. You can stay here, but you need to hide," he says, leading through twisting passageways.

"Hide?" Esmeralda replies.

Quasi turns, wringing his hands together. "If I know Frollo... and I probably should... he's not going to make the same mistake last time. The first place he's going to check will be the bell-tower. I hid you once. He knows I'll do it again," he says hurriedly.

Esmeralda's face immediately drains of any color as the weight of his statement hits her. "Oh... oh God, I'm so sorry... We've put you at risk!" she realizes.

Quasimodo shakes his head. "I'll be fine. But you've got to hide, I'm sure he will be here any moment."

Suddenly, the three jump at the sound of footsteps, rapid and purposeful, echoing up the stairs. Quasi drags them both to a closet tucked away behind one of the bells. "This is where all the broken statues go. He shouldn't look in here, I doubt he knows it exists."

Immediately, Esmeralda pulls him into a hug, clinging to him tight. "Be careful around him, you here? If things get bad..." she trails off, her voice cutting off.

"I'll be fine. Get in the cupboard!" he whispers.

Rosa and Esmeralda slip inside. "Ouch!" Rosa hisses as she stubs her toe on one of the gargoyles. Esmeralda automatically clamps her arm onto Rosa's wrist, glaring at her. Shooting an apologetic look, Rosa snaps her lips over her teeth.

The two women crouch down, tucking themselves in the shelving among the cracked angels, saints, and gargoyles. Esmeralda grips Rosa's hand tight as her heart pounds furiously. She curses her own heart for being so loud.

Esmeralda hears muffled voices, far away from the door. But no matter the distance, the baritone of Frollo still sends shudders of terror through her frame.

Please God, oh please, she prays for one of the few times in her life.

Xxx

Frollo wastes no time in finding Notre Dame and tying off his steed. As he bolts through the wooden doors, he immediately turns to the bell-tower, a determined feverish madness compelling him to take the steps two at a time.

Of course she would come here; her greatest ally was too smitten with the raven-haired temptress to even speak up against her. Frollo gnashes his teeth in fury as he marches up the winding stairs. The fool! The boy was an utter fool to allow himself to bend to her sinful wiles.

He turns the corner, at last reaching the monster's inner sanctum. The familiar path to the boy's keep is ingrained in his muscle memory, despite the buried apprehension due to the last time he had been up these stairs.

Frollo climbs the wooden stairs, his own mind conjuring her punishments- her penance for his utter ruin. Would she hang? Be gutted? Would that beautiful body experience the very same lash as his own? Or perhaps he would finish what he started so many months ago, and torch her until her beautiful red mouth was kissed by flame?

His inner monologue cuts off when Quasimodo lopes in front of him, arms crossed. His face is still as disfigured, as monstrous as he remembered.

But while he used to have a shyness, a fear that pervaded his features... his crossed arms, his furrowed brow connote a determination, a bravery that vaguely unsettles the minister.

For a moment, master and slave eye each other, guarded expressions on their faces. Frollo relaxes the snarl that curls back his lips, replacing it with the stone mask of judicial sensibility. If he is to reach his goal... he has to stifle the violent beats of his heart, the angry throb of his pulse that pounds ceaselessly through his veins.

"Good afternoon, Quasimodo," he slowly begins.

The bell-ringer is absolutely motionless. The tension practically crackles in the air around them as Frollo waits for his response.

At last, he replies, "What do you want?"

A wan, tight-lipped smile spreads on his lips. "Ah, quite a quick response. What makes you believe I want something from you, Quasimodo?"

The hunchback flinches minutely, an involuntary reaction bred after years of righteous discipline. But, to the judge's surprise, he remains frank and concise in his response, "Because you've been out of prison for three months, and it's only now that you come here."

There is no accusatory bite to his words. The boy is too mild-mannered for such an action. But within the words is a truthful cadence. And Frollo must admit his intentions.

"Did you miss me? I thought you made your true intentions quite clear when you chose to save that wretched harlot," he says casually, although his anger flares at the very mention of her.

"She's none of those things," Quasimodo exclaims, fists clenched. Despite himself, Frollo feels the smallest bit of apprehension at the bell-ringer's defensive stance. He must tread lightly... the last confrontation with the boy ended quite... unfortunately.

He chooses diplomacy. "Since you are quite eager to discern my true intentions, I shall be direct. Esmeralda..." he feels his heart squeeze at uttering that name, that sinful string of syllables that flows deliciously off his tongue, liquid sin. Clenching his jaw to stifle the shudder that threatens to reveal his weakness, he forges on.

"The gypsy girl was caught in the act of assaulting an officer, as well as aiding and abetting a thief. As her last hideaway was in Notre Dame, it only seems natural that her path lead here. I am to escort her and the thief to the Palace of Justice, where the law shall exact its just cause. Surely you would be interested in maintaining the safety of Parisians?" he drawls condescendingly, his voice soothing.

But there is not a hint of relaxation in Quasimodo's stance, nor his facial features. "I haven't seen them."

A minute flicker of his gaze tells the experienced interrogator he's lying. Frollo restrains from grabbing the absolute imbecile and throttle him for such blatant disregard of his authority.

"I seem to recall another time you blatantly lied to me, Quasimodo. Did that situation end as you intended?" Frollo asks, his eyes narrowing.

Quasimodo flinches yet again. And yet, despite his growing fear... he says, "I haven't seen them."

Frollo stifles a hiss of anger as he lurches forward, hands twitching, itching to strike the belligerent boy. "You lie, and it damns you, Quasimodo. Need I remind you of your Christian duty?! Of the hell that awaits you for your disobedience?" he snarls, temper flaring beyond the confines he had so carefully placed. All the while he was aware that she was probably slipping from the cathedral, escaping once again.

Quasimodo cringes, but with that same, determined tone, he says, "I haven't seen them."

Frollo's composure snaps entirely and he shoves the bell-ringer aside, hissing, "Never mind, you fool! I shall find them myself!"

"And just who do you intend to find, Frollo?"

The new, brusque voice acts as a shock to the judge's system, and he instantly looks behind him to see the archdeacon, hands clasped in front of him, blue eyes alight with suspicion.

Frollo turns, irritation flaring, as well as apprehension. The two men regarded each other with hostility. There was a barely concealed disappointment that glints in the archdeacon's eyes, one that makes the minister's skin crawl.

The archdeacon walks unbowed, somehow unafraid of the minister despite the disastrous events of their last meeting. Despite that chaos, that catastrophe, he still insists on being a hindrance. Frollo grinds his teeth, a headache bubbling behind his eyes as he anticipates the coming frustration.

Father Maurice was a kindly old fool with nerves of steel. Had they been allies, Frollo would have admired the man for his will. As they were enemies, Frollo can only feel rage, as well as a cagey defensiveness that burrows underneath his skin.

"I intend, Father, to find two gypsies that have a great amount of charges brought up against them."

Father Maurice stares at the judge dubiously, suspicion etched in each line of his round face. "I am quite aware of the two gypsies. They have proclaimed sanctuary. In fact, Esmeralda was quite adamant about it. I suppose I do not have to remind you once again, Frollo, about this matter."

Frollo's fingers twitch at his side, the violent, yet somehow preferable image of the archdeacon in a crumbled heap at the bottom of the stairs flashing before him. He stifles a sigh of exasperation, pushing back the unpleasant memory.

He wishes yet again he were sober. Oh, he is not drunk from the earthly liquors of wine and mead. That would be preferable. Right now, his head reels with the intoxicating heat of anger, fo irrational rage towards the tiny minx that so mockingly flaunts herself behind his eyelids at night, and yet, moments ago, spurns and verbally slaps him like a child.

"I am aware of sanctuary, Father. But God's law must be performed. These two gypsies were caught red-handed. They have no defense!"

The priest has an almost chiding tone of voice when he answers. "Ah yes, of course. But their guilt is unfortunately of no matter, lest they choose to give themselves to you and rvoke their own sanctuary. I do not see them here. Do you, Quasimodo?" The priest notes.

The hunchback, usually speechless and stammering in front of the old man, clearly replies, "No, Father."

Ah, a plot to foil him, orchestrated by the former ward and the former man he had once respected. Frollo cannot hide the fury, the terrible frustration, from slipping onto his features, nor can he ignore the tightening sensation in his chest.

He opens his mouth to retort at the bald round-faced man... but each comment, each potential attacks that threatens to escape all seems more damning than the next. He suddenly realizes that he's run to exactly the same place he was more than a year ago, chasing her, defying the church's law, and getting utterly nowhere.

He feels doomed. Trapped in this cycle, the cycle of her making. He clenches his jaw, knowing the next words he says to the man he once so brutally threw down the stairs must be precise, logical, diplomatic... all the qualities he certainly is not at the moment.

Frollo straightens up, adjusting his chaperon with a careless, yet somehow perfected sweep of his ringed hand. His icy gaze affixes onto the priest, and he forces himself to speak. "I shall have guards at each door, Father. And when, not if, when, the gypsies make their escape, I intend to arrest them, outside of the cathedral. Is that satisfactory?" He slowly drawls, voice dropping low, maintaining an illusion of tranquility and methodical thinking that could convince anyone... had the archdeacon not been the direct and unfortunate victim of Frollo's previous wrath.

Father Maurice's features do not soften, do not relax. He only nods his head once. "As long as your men stay outside of the church walls... and so long as you do not meddle in these affairs within Notre Dame, Frollo," he says, pointing an accusing finger at the black-robed judge.

Frollo's lips peel back from his teeth in a terrifying snarl that has Quasimodo absolutely shaken. But the archdeacon remains unbowed, that same disappointment glinting plainly in his gaze.

Frollo makes no sound of agreement, and reluctantly turns to leave, his nerves screaming within him to find the blasted girl, end this crawling paranoia, this fever that's burning through his veins. The illness that he can't find a cure for.

But a new voice claps against his ears, its tone passive yet biting in its cadence. "And what is to become of Esmeralda when she is arrested? What punishment shall she endure for her one act?"

Frollo's eyes squeeze shut as anger and panic course through him in equal parts. He shouldn't feel like this; like a caged animal, forced to defend themselves from every person foolish to cross its path. He should feel in control.

But it's been taken. Taken by green eyes and a red-lipped smirk.

Frollo quickly glides down the stairs, robes whipping around his shaking form. He bites his tongue to prevent a strangled shout of frustration from leaving his throat.

Opening the doors with a savage bang, he exits the chapel, to see his men turn to him. His loyal dogs.

"Surround the cathedral. And make sure, that she is caught this time, else you all receive thirty lashes. Do I make myself clear?" he hisses.

Too terrified to say otherwise, the men nod.

"To your posts!" he grits out through clenched teeth, veins popping out of his strained neck. The leading officer's face pales, then shouts, "To your posts! To your posts!"

Leaving behind a mess of scrambling soldiers, Frollo mounts his horse, mind sparking with plots to finally lure her out.

Blood raging hot in his veins, he doesn't remember exactly how he makes it to the Palace of Justice. Nor how the stable boy is left quivering in fear with the reins of his steed in hand.

His mind is a reeling, filled to its brim. Filled with her face, her mocking smile, the way her green eyes glint with devious intent.

When he storms into his office, he immediately yanks at parchment, scribbling furiously.

So absorbed he was in his writing, Frollo did not notice when Bonhomme ambles into the room, quill in hand, and sat across from him.

"Ah, I see you're back from patrol! For today, I believe the next item of the agenda are the tax collection efforts in the fifth district..."

Frollo does not respond, barely hearing the man as he writes the request. Bonhomme can see the agitation present in the taut muscles of the man's neck, as well as the frantic, yet fluid movements of his fingers. "Minister?" he questions.

Frollo's piercing gaze snaps up from the parchment, at last recognizing that Bonhomme had entered. "I will attend to such matters in a moment, Bonhomme. Patience," he chides, his voice sharp, cutting to the quick. Bonhomme flinches, sensing an undercurrent of tension in the man. "Minister, what is it you are doing?"

"A request of the King," he responds curtly, about to stamp the seal. But a throat clearing breaks him of fervor.

Looking up once more, he sees Bonhomme, brow furrowed, hand outstretched. "May I see it?"

Frollo's eyes darken as he realizes that the obstacle to his plans may not be in the form of an archdeacon, but in the form of the irritant across his desk. Every nerve of his own body screamed in protest.

The fact of the matter was he was still under the eye of the attendant. If he refused.. it would be back to the dungeon. Back to hell.

He gives over the sheet, fingers tensed, clenching into a tight fist when Bonhomme slips the paper into his own ham-like hands. The man adjusts his spectacles, scanning the page.

HE can practically hear the conjectures of Bonhomme before he can open his mouth.

"Frollo... in this sheet... you suggest overriding previous protocol... to pass an act to remove two gypsies from Notre Dame..."

"If you have a point, Bonhomme I suggest you make it quite soon!" Frollo replies harshly.

Bonhomme flinches, but his tone is one of firm protocol, of schooled response. "I just... it seems rather... odd to try an accelerate this process of getting an act of removal from Notre Dame... for two gypsies who haven't been accused of incredibly severe crimes..."

"In what world is the act of theft and assault not severe? It is against the law, it must be punished!" he snaps.

He can feel the attendant's distrust growing, the suspicion pervading the room. "I simply... I don't really understand why it is you want the acceleration?"

"Because she will escape if she's left for more than one night in that cathedral!" he finally lashes out, words spewed like corrosive acid.

The words that tumbled out... they shock Frollo as well as Bonhomme. Frollo immediately realizes his gaffe, his disastrous blunder. He smooths back his disheveled hair, attempting to present a much more... rational man than what his words suggest.

Bonhomme's mouth gapes open like that of a codfish at a fish market. "Minister... who is she?" he asks, almost timidly.

Frollo attempts to remain calm even as he feel the attendant's trust grow scantier and scantier. "A gypsy. She assaulted an officer, defied the Crown in doing so. She is dangerous. Leaving her unpunished would only serve to give the heathens a reason to rebel against the King himself," he says, his words flowing easily, but utterly unfaithful to the truth that's settled itself in his skull.

The explanation, is in fact a good one. But Bonhomme's furrowed brow indicates that Frollo climbs on a slippery slope... a dangerous one at that.

"Minister... who is the gypsy girl?" Bonhomme asks quietly, wringing his hands together.

Frollo glares at the attendant. A silence, heavy, and pregnant with uncertainty, presses down on both men like a significant weight.

Frollo knows that revealing the identity of her would have him questioned. But lying, and then being found out would also risk his position.

Frustration. He cannot escape the absolute frustration of his situation. For months, the tensions have risen to a fever pitch, leaving him agitated, paranoid.

And it all results in this.

"The gypsy in question is Esmeralda," he reveals through gritted teeth.

Bonhomme of course knows the story. Who doesn't? It was such a scandal, the great Judge Frollo, toppled by a gypsy who's name was more exotic than any import from Persia.

Everyone knows the name. Everyone knows the story.

Bonhomme slowly places the parchment down. His gaze is one of worry.

Frollo knows what comes next.

"Minister... If I may be frank... you have a very great deal to lose. I believe... you are a good judge. A great one."

Irritation courses through him. "The point," he spits out.

"My suggestion is to not throw it all away... over a gypsy. Because if you send that, I don't know how the Crown will react," he says honestly.

"Then what do you suggest? Since you seem quite adamant about running my city, about taking on my duty, I would be most grateful for your input!" Frollo lashes out sarcastically, his nerves frayed to the breaking point.

Bonhomme's head is bowed.

"I don't know. I'm sorry, I don't know! But you... you can find another way?" Bonhomme says shakily.

The perspiring, pale attendant sits down uneasily into the chair. _Useless man,_ Frollo thinks viciously, turning his gaze from him.

He would not fail. Not again.

His mind works at a feverish, machine-like pace, whirring and spinning with possibilities and scenarios. Calculations are made, intrigues plotted...

He takes the proposition and shoves it into his desk, the impossible scenario discarded.

Frollo strides to the other side of the room, barking orders at the youth. "I want the first brigade down by the stables, ready to leave. And I wish for Captain Phoebus and Lieutenant Levette to be in my study immediately!"

"Yes sir!" the youth pipes up, sprinting down the hall.

Frollo turns back inside, his mind reeling.

Captain Phoebus and the Lieutenant file inside. "Ah, yes. Lieutenant. If you would not mind, I would like to speak to the Captain first in private," Frollo says coldly.

One the door had shut, Phoebus is subjected to the cold, infamous gaze of Judge Claude Frollo. The blonde does not flinch, something he once admired in the captain.

Now, te bravery seems like an absolute defiance of his rule. Frollo clasps his hands behind his back, and straightens to his full height to tower above the captain.

Phoebus is silent, sensing a tension below the calm façade of the Minister. One that threatens all that stand in his way.

"Captain, would you be so kind as to remind me... what is your duty as Captain?" Frollo lilts dangerously, his eyes inspecting the man with a derision that would make lesser men cower.

Phoebus can sense a looming danger. So he chooses his words carefully. "To protect and serve the law," he responds monotonously.

"And, would you say, that includes, serving the Minister who commands you?" Frollo drawls lazily, all while his eyes connote an intelligence that cuts to the quick, a sharpness that slices deep to the heart.

Phoebus remains silent. "An answer is requested, no, demanded of you, Captain," Frollo says, looming over the man.

"Yes," Phoebus finally says.

"Then why is it... that although you reported Esmeralda was outside of Paris... that I set eyes on her this very day?" he says calmly, but the brewing maelstrom that swirls in his dark gaze only hints at the anger beneath.

Phoebus remains stoic. "When I told you she was gone... she was in fact gone. She returned after I reported that to you. I was telling the truth."

"How convenient for you. But I'm afraid... that I do distrust you Phoebus. Who is to say you are not lying right now? And after your less than immaculate record, it is easier to believe you lie than speak truth, is it not?" Frollo notes, his voice thick with judgement and a pious authority that would rival any deity above.

Phoebus can feel anger course through him. But punching Frollo in the face would accomplish nothing. "I am telling the truth. Whether or not you believe me is an entirely different matter," he says gruffly.

"Such fighting words! You are a most valiant adversary Captain. But an adversary nonetheless."

Frollo calls in the Lieutenant who fumbles his way inside. "Lieutenant Levette, I am instating you as Captain. See to it that the job is done better than your predecessor," Frollo says, his eyes meeting those of Phoebus. Phoebus barely flinches, the sentencing entirely expected.

"Yes sir! Thank you so much sir! Thank you thank you thank-" "Enough!" Frollo hisses, his voice sharp. Levette's eyes are cast downward.

"Mobilize the troops Levette. It's time we pay the Court of Miracles a little visit," Frollo says coolly. Outrage crosses the blonde's features. "Frollo, you can't do this!" he protests, lurching forward.

"I think that matter shall be decided by the king's loyal attendant. Bonhomme!" he clips harshly.

Phoebus's eyes fall on the quivering man whose hands are clenched in prayer.

"Please..." Phoebus pleads, looking for an ally.

Bonhomme is too shocked to even respond. "Well, Bonhomme?" Frollo demands.

The attendant finally looks up. "He... he can," he confirms shakily.

"Good. The matter is settled. Levette, see to it he is placed under house arrest. Be grateful that you will not be spending your night in the dungeons tonight, Phoebus," Frollo says curtly.

Levette and Phoebus, leaving the Minister and the attendant alone. Bonhomme looks positively sick.

Frollo brushes past the seated man, firmly placing the chaperon on his head. "Do be so kind as to leave your proposals neatly on my desk for when I return. Good afternoon, Bonhomme," he drawls coolly, a smirk on his face as he shuts the door soundly behind him.

Xxx

Quasimodo hands Esmeralda blankets, the archdeacon following close behind. "Here, Father Maurice found these in the church annex. It gets cold up here at night," Quasi says, much more cheerful after Frollo had departed.

Esmeralda smiles weakly, her arms wrapping around the thick fabric. "Thank you." She says to both of them. Rosa still sits on a stool, visibly shaken by the whole affair. The archdeacon notes the anxiety that seeps from both women, and speaks softly to Esmeralda.

"You are welcome to stay here, Esmeralda. The church is always open for those in need. But, I must advise you, that the both of you did in face break a law. Punishment will come sooner than later," he warns.

"I know. But... to be quite frank, I doubt what Frollo has in store for me is going to be fair punishment by any standards," she says bluntly.

The archdeacon lets out a long-suffering sigh, rubbing at his bald head. "It is not in my place to criticize judicial proceedings... but Frollo has always been a special case," the archdeacon replies.

"I have no idea why!" she says sarcastically.

Rosa, lost in her thoughts, suddenly looks up when Esmeralda hands her a blanket. "Thanks," she mutters, wrapping it around her frame. She looks up, seeing the archdeacon. She automatically stiffens, throwing a suspicious glance at the holy man. But Esmeralda kneels down next to her, assuring her, "It's all right. This is Father Maurice. He sent Frollo away. You can trust him."

Rosa scrutinizes the man, and then says, "Aren't you the priest Frollo threw down the stairs?"

The archdeacon flinches, and yet again, Esmeralda remembers that Frollo harmed many people that fateful day. Rosa, realizing her gaffe, blushes and stammers, "I'm sorry."

"Judge Frollo certainly did not behave in a way befitting a man of God, yes," he replies diplomatically.

She hears the stomping, heavy footsteps of Quasi rushing towards them. "There's something going on outside!" he says breathlessly. Esmeralda straightens up, and catches a worried glance from the archdeacon. All three of them follow Quasimodo to the balcony.

Esmeralda looks down, to see soldiers marching past Notre Dame. Frollo leads them atop his own steed, barking out muffled orders that she can't discern from high up on the bell-tower.

But they're not heading towards Notre Dame, they're not storming the stairs. "They're leaving?" Rosa says, frowning. Esmeralda glances to the archdeacon whose face is passive.

Esmeralda's eyes is fixed on the troops that file down the narrow streets of Paris, the rhythm of their marching steady and ominous. "Where are they going?" she mutters under her breath, brow furrowed in confusion.

What was he planning?

She traces the path of the soldiers, and the answer jumps out at her. "They're going to the Court," she realizes in horror.

Rosa claps her hands to her mouth, muffling a scream of alarm. Immediately, guilt rushes through Esmeralda's frame. She did this. She angered the minister, and now he was going to burn down her home.

Esmeralda turns to Rosa, to see her crying. "Yosha... he's-he's too young!" she despairs, shoulders shaking. Esmeralda pulls her into an embrace, clutching the slender woman's frame to her own.

Quasimodo and the archdeacon are silent as despair and anxiety fill the air around the four figures on the balcony.

As Rosa weeps into her shirt, despairing the loss of her child, Esmeralda experiences a clarity that startles even her. "He doesn't want the Court, he already has it. He just wants me," she decides.

Quasi can hear the grim determination in her voice, and he immediately balks at her implication. "Esmeralda, you can't! He'll kill you!" he says in horror.

Esmeralda lets go of Rosa and spins to face her friend. "So what do I do? Just let him hold the Court hostage? Have him kill my family? I made this mess," She reminds him fiercely, even though her insides feel like they are being squeezed in an ice cold vise.

Rosa looks up at her, through teary eyes, and sobs, "No, it's m-my fault! I-I stole the stuff!"

Esmeralda looks at her... Rosa shakes with fear, a fear that she recognizes so deeply as her own. "Rosa, you have Yosha. You have to take care of him," she says gently.

"Esmeralda, you... you can't go!" Quasi protests.

"I most certainly am," she says firmly. She grabs her discarded cloak, latching it on. "And you're going to help," she says absolutely.

Quasi's face screws in outrage. "I... I can't!" he chokes out, voice cracking.

"Quasi, I'm not going to die. I'll... I'll think of something," she says, meeting his green-eyed gaze.

"What exactly?" Rosa asks suspiciously.

"Don't know. That's why I said I'll think of something," Esmeralda says sharply.

Rosa flinches, and Esmeralda's gaze softens. "Sorry..." she says quietly.

The archdeacon walks forward, and nods to her. "Thank you, Esmeralda. Your act is most selfless... I know that God above will be with you," he says.

Esmeralda stifles a disparaging laugh, instead choosing to smile politely. Quasimodo still stands, head bowed, silently objecting.

"Quasi... I promise... I'll be as safe as I can. But he has my family," she emphasizes.

For a moment, the bell-ringer is silent, inwardly debating.

Then he looks up, and reluctantly asks, "What do I need to do?"

Xxx

Esmeralda thought it would have been harder to break out of Notre Dame seeing as Frollo would be so adamant about not repeating past mistakes.

But, after clinging to Quasi's back, and having the archdeacon distract the guards posted outside... the hunchback managed to swing them onto a nearby roof and carry her to the outskirts of town undetected.

As Quasimodo finally set her down on the ground, he clings to her hand, a silent entreaty to not do anything risky. She nods, although she feels as if it's a lie.

They reach the Court. Nothing seems amiss... they're probably waiting down in the catacombs for her. She walks forward, the muffled thuds of her footsteps the only sound in the eerily silent graveyard.

"I can come with you..." Quasimodo starts.

But Esmeralda shakes her head. "Listen, I'm not the only one Frollo holds a grudge against. If he sees you... he will come after you."

"I want to be there with you!" Quasimodo protests.

Esmeralda turns, eyes flashing in the dusky light. "No, you have to be there for Rosa. She's still a criminal, Quasi. They'll still try and find her. She's got a kid on the way, and needs help. I need you to do that for me. Please?" she pleads.

He's rendered speechless by her. everything in him objects to her request to be left alone. She can see the loyalty, the fierce love that shines in his eyes. She was his first friend. He can't simply forget that.

"Please, take care of Rosa," Esmeralda repeats.

It is finally out of the respect for a friend that Quasimodo nods his head.

Esmeralda pulls him in for a hug. She tries to ignore how her own limbs tremble, how she can feel dread mounting in her chest. She tries not to feel... like she won't see him again.

"I'll see you soon," she assures shakily.

Quasimodo lets her go, and she can't look at his face. Can't look to see the despair that's there.

Esmeralda slowly steps down into the catacombs, darkness swallowing her whole.

xx

Thanks for reading and reviewing! The reviews really do motivate me to write! -Cgal


	8. Chapter 7

As Esmeralda descends down the familiar path to her home, she can't help but shudder uncontrollably, not from cold, but fear. Her breathing rattles in her chest, the only sound save for the scampering of rats.

Ice-cold water laps at her bare feet, seeping into her skirt. Her steps are slow and measured... and she feels reluctant to see her nightmare face to face once more.

She turns the corner to the Court of Miracles, expecting men in chainmail and armor to charge on her. Expecting his ring clad fingers gripping into her flesh.

But there's nothing. And that is most unsettling. There's always something. Always a vendor selling stolen goods, always women gossiping, always children wrestling each other for toys.

But it's silent. _It's not safe, _she thinks, anxiety spiking.

Her hands twitch towards her dagger as she darts between tents. Esmeralda turns to where Clopin's tent would be. Silently stepping between the multicolored fabrics, Esmeralda glances through the empty pathways, trying to find someone, anyone. She hears muffled mutters as she passes each tent, anxious whispers. People are scared.

Finally, as she turns towards the familiar path to Clopin's tent, she sees them. Soldiers, surrounding the tent, restraining her brother from moving.

And Frollo is with them.

Her heart jumps into her throat, and she can't breathe. Stumbling backward, she's disgusted to say her primary instinct was to hide. Slip into one of the tents, bury herself in the ground. Anything but face his gaze.

Her heartbeat roars in her ears, dulling her senses with it's angry, constant thrumming. Her hands already clench around her dagger, shaking.

Esmeralda peeks around the corner again, and from her spot, she can hear the demands of the tyrant hissing through clenched teeth and a taut jaw. Her brother is restrained, angrily shouting back at him, voice laced with profanities that would make any man blush. Frollo instead jabs a ringed finger, deep voice menacing even to her, when she wasn't even the direct recipient of its curse.

The judge came for her. That singular fact burns bright and savagely through her mind, filling her with fire. _He'll kill Clopin._ He'll kill them all if she didn't do something.

Visions of fire, of the panic induced memories that have overwhelmed her mind each time she thinks of the monster, are threatening to let loose their curse and incapacitate her.

She has to act now. Now.

Esmeralda darts out into the path, knife in hand, cloak hood off. She raises two fingers to her mouth and blows a shrill whistle.

Frollo's head snaps around and his eyes yet again connect with her own. Her heart pounds furiously as his face twists into one of sick determination.

And she runs, legs a blur as her feet beat a constant, heart-stopping rhythm against the ground. She can barely hear over her heartbeat, but she knows they run after her, chain mail clanging and banging clumsily as they pursue.

Clopin yells, a wordless cry of outrage as Frollo takes off after her, following close behind the soldiers he had sent after her. He sprints quickly, ignoring the ache of his bones, the creak of his knees. The pain of old wounds and age in his limbs does not register, his mind too fixated on her legs moving rapidly beneath purple cloth, hair and cloak whipping agitatedly behind her. He thinks of nothing but the sight of her, fleeing, within his reach.

Esmeralda expertly maneuvers through the dirt pathways between tents, twisting and turning down the narrow alleys. She dares to look back, and sees a flash of chain mail and black. Panic mounts in her chest, and she runs faster, forcing her legs to move.

She briefly thinks about going out the main entrance, only to immediately squash the thought. It was too exposed and direct of a sprint, they would quickly outstrip her.

Her head whips around to see the entrance to the deeper underbelly of the Court. Barely even considering the other possibilities, Esmeralda charges forward, quickly slipping down into one of the labyrinth like halls burrowed deep below the surface of France.

As she disappears down into the gaping maw of the tunnel, Frollo immediately feels a surge of anger course through his blood. No. He would not allow her to escape once again.

"Find her!" he barks out, breaths heaving from his chest.

The men dive down into the darkened tunnel, clambering through the dark. Frollo follows, eyes quickly adjusting to the darkened surroundings. The tunnel smells of decay and dried blood, a pungent odor that has a couple of the men gagging.

One stops running, bent over and about to vomit. Frollo quickly grips him by the hair, wrenching him to a standing position. "You will not stop. You will not even think of stopping until she is in custody! Or else it shall be fifty lashes. Are we clear?" Frollo snarls.

The man's face, green with sick, pales in fear of the Minister, and he instantly sprints with the others, hand clapped to his mouth. "Disgusting!" Frollo hisses in irate fury, grounding his teeth together at the absolute ineptitude of his men.

He strides quickly down the hall, observing the tunnel. It seemed as if it were only one passageway, burrowing down. At least it should be easier to sniff her out...

Unless... she meant to lure them down... only to find a way out again.

"Lieutenant!"

One of the men, breathing heavily, pants out, "Yes sir?"

"Seal off the entrance to the tunnel. Make sure she does not retrace her steps!" he says curtly.

"Yes Minister," the solider salutes, sprinting back to the entrance.

Frollo looks down the gaping maw of the tunnel, barely lit by the torch sputtering in its sconce. Noting the several enclosed cells lining the walls, he comes to the conclusion that he is in fact in the gypsy's dungeon. No prisoners are in the cells though. _Who on earth would be imprisoned in a sea of murderers and thieves? _He thinks sardonically.

The slapping, rhythmic sound of footsteps echoes towards him. His hairs on the back of his neck stand up straight as he becomes a hyperaware of the sound, devoid of the clanging of chainmail. And he knows within his bones that Esmeralda is sprinting out of the darkness.

Smirking to himself, he steps back into the shadows, brushing past the open cell door to conceal himself into a hidden corner of the empty cell.

He hates the way his pulse jumps when she sprints past the cell, black, riotous curls tossed haphazardly around her. She quickly runs up the entrance, and he waits for the sound of her capture.

But no such sound rings out. Instead, he hears the footsteps come toward him once again. From the corner of his eye, she sees her gaze dart up and down the tunnel. He can practically see the vicious schemes she had plotted becoming foiled in her head.

But there's a determination to survive, as he's seen in so many of her kind. A determination that has her dart into the adjoining cell with him in it, accidentally slamming the door in the process.

She backs up from the door, slipping into the shadowed alcove, only inches from his hiding spot. He can hear her panting breaths, can feel her frantic, erratic energy burning inches from his fingertips.

_Clever girl, _he thinks as she tries to make herself scarce as possible, backing away form the lit parts of the cell.

But not clever enough.

Esmeralda cries out in alarm when strong wiry arms wrap around her middle, crushing her to an unseen assailant. She wriggles and kicks, but a long, slender limb wraps around her arms, locking their mobility. She yells, only for a hand to roughly clasp over her mouth, rings clacking unsettlingly against her teeth.

The voice that hisses in her ear is painfully familiar, and also smug. "I have you now, little imp," Frollo croons, lips nearly pressing to the shell of her ear. Her scent, her sweet, familiar scent wafts to his nostrils, and he is drunk on his victory. "You will burn this time, witch. I will do it myself," he whispers.

Her body bucks against his, that soft, lithe body that still bewitches him even as he knows that she is sin, the devil's little servant. Her warmth seeps in through his robes, and he becomes dangerously overwhelmed. She feels a shuddering, rasping breath against her neck, and her disgust mingled with desperation fuels her.

She chomps down on his palm, biting hard enough to draw blood. He hisses in pain, yet delights in her fire and the feel of her hot mouth. But his grip loosens just enough.

Esmeralda launches an elbow at his bony ribcage, shocking him to his senses. He tries to grip harder, but she wriggles free, scratching and clawing at whatever she can find. With a grunt of exertion, she reaches blindly with a fist that haphazardly connects with his jaw. Frollo is surprised by the blinding pain that shoots across his cheekbone, shocked that one so small could throw such a strong blow.

Esmeralda isn't sure how, but she manages to slip from his grasp. Frollo feels her grasp at his robes, and he aims a strike to her, only to miss. His dagger is stripped from her body, and before he can comprehend what's happened... he feels cold steel upon his neck.

"On your knees!" she hisses. Frollo attempts to turn, but the steel presses harder, leaving a stinging hot trail in its wake. Immediately anger sets him on edge, as well as deep shame. Bested by a gypsy girl barely reaching his shoulder in height. He hisses in agitation, clenching his fists.

"Down!" she orders harshly.

Face screwed in disgust, Frollo slowly kneels, every nerve of his body balking at the very idea of submitting to her whims.

"Hands up," she says firmly, automatically suspicious, wondering if she missed a weapon on his person during their brief scuffle.

He slowly lifts them, flexing his long fingers. His garish rings catch the scant light. How many times had she seen those rings in her nightmares, biting into her flesh as he moved? Her vision is misted in red, and she finds it difficult to breathe without gasping.

He feels her agitation, her hatred through that single blade held to the tender white flesh of his throat. Vulnerability, weakness, submission... all the very worst things he despises, and she simply thrusts upon him with abandon, uncaring of his status, his position, his birthright.

He is nothing. Nothing compared to the steel warmed by his flesh that holds everything in the balance.

It was disturbingly familiar, this state of weakness, to the year of exile. Memory surges, and the resentment of the woman that hovers above him, who's breath washes over the nape of his neck, builds to a fever pitch.

They both hear the clanging of chainmail. And he has to stifle another cry of pain when she digs the blade in, hissing "Quiet," into his ear. He wonders if it's worth it to simply give in, have her slit his throat. Would it be better to die in defiance of the gypsy queen, or to live and follow her will?

The choice burns in his mind.

He reluctantly chooses survival... only because his death would mean her ultimate victory. And who would want to surrender such a prize?

The men rush past, and he silently curses their ineptitude. He hears voices conjecturing at the entrance of the tunnel, an argument breaking out, and a scuffle.

And then, nothing.

"Looks like your loyal dogs aren't so loyal after all," she muses, grimly smiling behind him. He glares at a fixed point ahead. He's too aware of how close she stands, of our her palm presses against his chest, keeping him inert on her knife. Without the blade, the position they have found themselves in would seem intimate, the embrace of a lover. The thought sends an involuntary shudder through his frame, one she feels through her fingertips. She frowns, deciding to not note it.

He damns his own body for reacting to her touch. Damns the way his skin flushes with unbearable heat even as the knife presses at his pulse point. Damns how her sweet smell permeates the air around him, until he can no longer breathe.

How could he have miscalculated so grievously, and allowed her to have dominion? The gypsy, the harlot. The sinner dragging him down with her.

Esmeralda is silent, inwardly debating what she should do. It would be easy, too easy to just... do it. To kill him.

How many members of her family would be saved if she simply pressed the knife? Her nightmares, gone. Quasimodo's fear, gone. The injustice, gone.

_He shouldn't be alive..._ she thinks, her hands trembling at the prospect.

Her heart pounds as she clenches a fist at his chest, scraping the skin beneath his robe. His breathing is labored as he feels her body press into his back, her softness frustratingly close. Wanting, lust, peaks through him flooding his body with a shameful heat he wants to temper. He grits his teeth, silently praying for relief. _Beata Maria, protect me sin, protect me from the temptress that holds me captive,_ he begs.

She's quiet, so very quiet. It unsettles him, because the tension in the room is rising fast, signaling catastrophe.

_Do it,_ Esmeralda inwardly screams, her palms clammy with sweat. Clopin wouldn't even hesitate to gut him then throw him to the dogs.

Her hands shake and she prays that he does not see their trembling.

She had never killed before. Never sunk in a blade to flesh. In many ways, she is no innocent, but in this, she remains completely in the dark. And the unknown gapes out like some beastly thing's maw, ready to consume all.

Her mind is suddenly rife with excuses, one much more prevalent than the others.

If she slit his throat now... what would be the consequences later? The tyrant would be gone. But then again, the Crown was quite adamant about putting him back as minister. They were on his side.

What would they do if she killed him? They would have a reason to completely dismantle the Court. Kill her family.

She hates that part of her is relieved at the prospect of leaving him alive. She tries not to dwell upon it, and at last speaks.

"All right... let's cut a deal," she says firmly.

Immediately, he stiffens, her husky demand sending a wave of repulsion through him. "I do not negotiate with the likes of you gypsies," he spits out, the words akin to the most profane of curses.

"Well, unfortunately for you, I have the knife, so you've got no choice but to negotiate with the likes of me," she replies bitterly.

He attempts to turn his head, only to feel it press harder. "Stop," she orders.

He grinds his teeth in aggravation, galled at the imperious way she demands his allegiance. "So, witch. What is it you wish? My death? Then do it already!" he grits out harshly.

"I don't want to kill you, but I will if you threaten me again," she responds truthfully.

But he cannot hear truth, and imagines falseness in her tone. He laughs bitterly, mockingly. "Such lies you tell... It makes me wonder if indeed falsehoods are ingrained onto the tongues of gypsy babes. You all speak such charming tales, such heathen rabble... you are masters of deceit, trickery..."

"Well, if I am such a good liar, then you should be very, very nervous Minister," she exclaims angrily, his tone grating on her ears, his very presence like an itch that she couldn't scratch.

He was silent, contemplating her words. She breathes out, steadying herself.

"I'm going to give you a bargain. A compromise. I let you go, and you call off your men. You don't harass my family. You leave the Court..."

"And?"

"I'll leave Paris. For good this time. You'll never see me again. You can escort me to the border personally."

A dark hollow laugh rumbles in his chest. "You crept through my city undetected for months... what makes me believe you will not do it again?"

"I assure you... a city that has you as Minister... is no longer a city I want a part in," she says grimly.

"And what of punishment? You broke the law. I will not let you walk away from punishment," he emphasizes, his voice sharp.

Her face screws into one of outrage, and he can hear a biting viciousness in her words as she says, "Isn't exile enough? Isn't leaving behind my family, my home, enough?"

"Nothing shall be enough for what you have done!" he spits out harshly.

"What I've done?" she whispers, shocked at his gall, at the very... ignorance of the man.

He feels the knife press tight... and he realizes he might have miscalculated.

It would be too easy... The anger that burns through her veins fuels the fire, the need to silence him for good.

"Criminals must be punished..." he says decidedly.

"Yes they should," she replies accusingly.

The world is balanced on a knife's edge, and he knows she is only moments from making her choice.

Her grip still clenches him, and he wonders when the air became so thin in this cell. When his lungs found it so difficult to take in the air around him.

But then... her fists relaxes its iron grip. "I've given you my proposition. Tell me your answer... now!"

"How will I know you have gone? That you don't lie," Frollo says.

"I keep my promises Frollo. Have your soldiers patrol the border, report to you if I'm gone. And they will say the truth," she replies.

Her knife presses. And he decides what would be best for his survival.

"I accept it. Let go of me now," he orders.

She glares down at his disheveled grey hair, disgusted by the very man who kneels before her.

"I'm opening the door. You're going to walk with me out the tunnel, and will call your men off," she explains.

"Do you think me an imbecile? I believe I would know quite well how this transaction shall proceed!" he lashes out, already pushed to his breaking point.

"Then get up, with your hands up, and move to the damn door!" she cries out in frustration.

Sick to his stomach at the prospect of submission, he slowly rises, looming above her. She takes his own knife and presses it to his back. "Two's better than one. So don't get any ideas," she says quietly.

She presses the tip of her knife to his back, and he slowly walks forward. She has to strain to reach his neck, but it's enough of a threat that he does not do anything but slowly glide over to the door.

He contemplates the very agreement he had so reluctantly chose to accept. Gone. She would be gone. Without punishment, without so much as a trial.

Vengeance. Such a bitter, angry emotion. Such a biting, brutal path.. Especially bitter if admitting defeat. His mind schemes around her deal. What is a gypsy's promise worth to him? He would break greater men's vows in the name of the law.

His hands grasp around the door, and push... only for it to remain absolutely inert. Frowning, he pushes once again.

"You're stalling!" she accuses.

He turns his head and narrows his eyes. "It's rather difficult to open a door when it is locked," he quips sarcastically at her.

_Locked? Locked?! _

Esmeralda's green eyes involuntarily widen in fear. It's as if her worst nightmares had spontaneously animated, came to life before her eyes.

"There has to be a way out," Esmeralda says, trying to remain calm, not let panic flood into her voice. She shoves him aside, still holding a knife to his back, and bends over to the lock, jamming one of her hairpins she always kept for situations like this. Chewing her lower lip, she wiggles it back and forth, trying desperately to get it to open,

But the padlock wasn't giving, and she suddenly remembers. _"Can't believe I spent ten whole silvers on this damn lock. Lock-pick proof. That's what I get for leading a bunch of crooks. All of 'em now how to pick their way out of anything," _Clopin had complained.

"Damn it!" she says, banging her fist on the iron gate, hand trembling in anger that she could be so stupid, so mindless.

Especially around a man like him.

She straightens up and instantly shoots a glare at the minister's back still pressing the knife in.

"Well, did you find your way out?" he says sardonically.

At that comment, she is tempted to reach over and strike him across his smug face. But she restrains herself.

"Clopin will check the cells. He's sure to find you and I, minister. We'll just have to bide our time," she says, meeting his cold gaze. Ignoring the fear that it would be the soldiers, not the

Frollo remains motionless, outwardly tranquil even. But within his mind, a crushing feeling of dread came upon him. Trapped. With this temptation within his grasp. The situations his mind came up with were appalling, and he had to physically clench his fists and inwardly count to keep the violent clamor of his blood still.

He loathed being cornered. But it seemed as if there was no other choice. "Ah yes. Well, I am patient," he said lowly, a smirk on his face. The smirk disguised him. Disguised the turmoil of his mind.

Esmeralda seems less sure than ever, pressing the knife in. Who knew how long they could stay in their position? She didn't want to relinquish her upper hand, but if they were going to be in here for a long time, it wouldn't be smart to stay standing.

"I want you to get over to the wall, and face me with your hands raised up," she says.

He cocks his head in her direction, testing her. "And if I don't?"

The only response is the increase in pressure from the knife at his back. Scowling, he shuffles over to the opposite wall, guided by her knife-point. Once there, he slowly turns, feeling the blade reposition itself at his throat once again.

Esmeralda stares him down, knuckles turning white from clenching both weapons. Slowly, she backs away, keeping a watchful eye on both his hands. "You stay over there. And I will be here. You make one move, one move, that I don't like... and there'll be a new body in these cells," she says, eyes narrowing.

One of his eyebrows rises, but to her chagrin, he simply gave her a joyless smile. "Oh, my dear little witch, what makes you think I'd be so... unsavory?" Frollo said, already knowing her response.

"Oh, I don't know. How about every single damn time you've tried to kill me?" she said, her voice strained.

"I have no such intentions tonight. Besides, the king's attendant would be most displeased if your body were to turn up with barely a trial to convict you," he remarks. His tongue weaves quite the tale, and he must admit, that she is not the only liar in this cell.

"Still don't trust you Frollo," she says with a harsh laugh.

He had once heard her laugh freely, without abandon. This laugh... it was utterly joyless. Dismal even. He's surprised by the involuntary pang that strikes through his chest.

He scowls. What did her laugh matter to him? It was better that it is without mirth. Her mirth usually meant she was mocking him, the minx.

He remains silent, and Esmeralda backs from him slowly, and slumps down against the wall, crouching with her dagger pointed at him.

He remains standing, and chooses to focus his gaze on the wall above her head, refusing to look at her. Refusing to acknowledge her. It's better then. For both of them.

Xxx

Silence presses on both of them, still, heavy silence. Esmeralda spends her time carving into the rock floor, her scratching noises breaking the silence. Frollo listlessly looks ahead, berating himself each time his eyes fell upon her blank face, her tired green eyes. She looks so much older than before. So much more burdened.

He presses taut fingers to the bridge of his nose, mind reeling. So many questions now burst into his mind. Inappropriate to ask them, seeing as she is a criminal. But while he wishes to sentence her... he can't help but wonder. Why did she leave? Where did she go? Who is this new, tired woman who now had so much loathing, so much bitterness seeping through her skin, pouring out into this small cell?

He stifles his inner musings, attempting to think of anything other than the one person he had so wanted to see, the person who was his downfall... and yet had saved him from toppling that one day.

Esmeralda looks up from the ground at his face. He seems the same. The same austere, severely lined face. The same cold eyes. The same tall, formidable silhouette.

This was the closest she had ever dared to be ever since she returned to Paris. It was now that she saw a pale scar, running from his temple, down past his jawline. She traces the scar's path, too curious, wondering what had caused it.

But another question, far less... uncomfortable springs to her lips. "Why did you come to the Court of Miracles? Why not just let your lackeys do it?"

Frollo's dark gaze flickers down to her, her question sending unease through his frame. Of course she knows why. Why would she ask such a question? His hands clench at the stone wall behind him as he attempts stoicism, even as . "When a task arises... it s most prudent to see to the completion of such a task yourself... and not let anyone else impede its fruition," he says casually, all the while noting her tense posture.

Esmeralda frowns, lips turning down in displeasure. "So, you didn't think they would get me, so you decided to do it yourself?'" she says bluntly.

He cocks his head to the side, a curious movement that Esmeralda narrows her eyes at. "If you wish to think of it in such a way, you may."

Esmeralda ducks her head from his, focusing on a scant piece of thread hanging from her blouse. She frowns down at her lap, brow furrowed in displeasure. "There have been so many Romani that have probably broken your laws. And yet you choose to come after me," she says pointedly.

Frollo can hear the harsh judgement in her voice. His face hardens as a bitter retort works its way up his throat.

But the retort is held at bay by her burning eyes, those intense orbs that seem to burrow into his soul, climb into every corner of his being. And he suddenly realizes that if they want to both live till morning, it would be best to stay stoic and say as little as possible.

So instead of angrily lashing out... he says nothing.

Esmeralda peers up at him, looking for some sort of response. She finds none.

"Your lack of response doesn't ease me, Frollo. It just makes me think the worst," she says offhandedly. She instantly wonders if that was the right thing to say. Why is she even speaking to him, to the man who is her sworn enemy?

He still was silent, towering over her. He's solemn, quiet, and completely unreadable.

Shifting around in her position, she looks back down at her knife, and pretends to clean its blade. Anything to keep her mind off of the man in front of her.

Silence reigns once more, damnable silence that only increases the inappropriate questions that threaten to leave him.

Finally, she breaks her silence, and says in a strained voice, "Can you please just sit down? First of all, you make me uncomfortable with you towering up there like some god, and second, we'll be here all night. Might as well make yourself comfortable."

Such an impertinent little chit. Thought herself so high, when she was simply a lowly gypsy.

She does have a point though. Already, the damp air and the immobile, uncomfortable position are making his bones ache. He needs to be alert, and he certainly can feel tiredness seeping in.

"Never thought you'd be so in tune to my bodily aches," he drawls. Her upper lip curls in disgust at the implication, and this time it's him who lets out a joyless laugh.

He debates following her request. Would she see it as weak?

He soon walks towards the wall, aware of her every expression. He sinks down, nearly hissing as the cold stone seeps in through his velvet robes.

Esmeralda looks at him, seated so uncomfortably on the stone. His back was ramrod straight, his whole body was tense. Could the man ever relax?

She wipes another insignificant spot on her blade, just to keep from looking at him.

But then, she hears the question, relatively quiet, yet still demanding. "Why did you leave Paris?"

She stops, not daring to look up for a moment. With a slow upturn of her head, she stares at him in the eyes, frowning. "What does it matter?" she says sharply. Too sharply, it sounds suspicious.

It must've been suspicious for he keeps going. "No, it doesn't matter. None of it does. But if I am to be trapped in here, I might as well have a question answered. Then you may clean that blade however much as you wish," he says wryly. She really was quite obvious in her discomfort, especially when she kept wiping at that spotless steel.

She's still silent, choosing her words carefully. "I needed some time to think."

To her surprise, he lets out a subdued and hollow laugh. She shoots a glare at him.

"So intentionally vague. I see you've grown most diplomatic since our last encounter," he says.

She bites her lip, anger surging.

But she keeps quiet, choosing to yet again wipe and scrub at invisible spots.

Silence. It's incredibly... irritating actually. To see the way she presses her lips tight over her mouth, barricading her own thoughts, her own poisonous words in. She was withholding. And he had not the slightest clue why.

Instead of explaining... she chooses to deflect, and lash. "Where were you?" she says pointedly, her emerald eyes burning.

There was the question. And he is just as unwilling, perhaps even more-so, to answer. "Exile," he says, the short word in no way encapsulating the punishment he had endured for months on end.

"You call me vague. You're about as tight-lipped as they come. You're tight _everything_. I swear, you're wound up so much you're going to explode..." she says. She was really rambling... not really like her. But the silence is getting to her... and at least hearing herself talk like a babbling fish wife at the market is better than hearing him berate her and her people.

One of his dark eyebrows rises. "Explode?" he says, so much derision and scorn in his tone she has the urge to slap him again.

She turns her gaze to him, and gave him such a sickly sweet sardonic smile that truly horrifies him. "Forgive the expression. Perhaps a much more educated word? Poor, uneducated, stupid Romani like me don't know educated words," she says, and her saccharine smile is laced with poison.

He narrows his eyes, her patronizing tone truly scraping across his ears like razors. "Poor uneducated gypsies... you could be educated though. If you simply turned to God." He says, almost triumphant that he has a proper response.

"No matter how many times I turn, Frollo... God doesn't listen," she says in an exhale.

The life, the burning energy drained, and suddenly, a much different Esmeralda appears before his eyes. His narrows eyes, and his cocky sense of superiority suddenly dissipates, leaving a blank slate in its place.

"When do you pray?" he remarks, attempting to pass it off as a challenge, when really, a true curiosity, dangerous, has been stirred within him.

Esmeralda lets out another sigh. He never did give up, did he?

"Why does it matter?"

"Usually, a faithful woman would know when she prays. You must not be as dutiful in your pleas as you thought," he says.

She isn't looking at him. It frustrates him.

Esmeralda turns to the gate, her hands looping through the bars. "I pray when I am truly hopeless. When things just won't turn out well... most of the time, my mind is too busy trying to figure out how to get out of this situation. Not exactly time to pray,"

"Before you sleep then?"

He hadn't meant for the statement to be whispered so... softly. As if it were an intimate utterance. He instantly regrets it, pegged it to a lack of self-control on his part. He was weak.

However softly it's said, Esmeralda hears the words.

She turns to him. He acted so... oddly. As if he were one person at one moment, then another at the next. Her brow knits together in what seems to be a common frown. "I'm too tired to pray... especially when it seems like nobody up there's listening."

"He rewards the faithful, who endure with Him despite the seeming emptiness," he intones.

"So, that's what you believe. Except you kill my people. _Kill _them. I guess you think that's all a part of God's law isn't it?" she says.

He had expected a firestorm of judgement from her. But instead he receives nothing more than hollowness, tiredness.

Why was she so drained?

Perhaps more goading. "Yes. The heathen races must be punished. And when you prance about with all your frivolous distractions... when you lure good Christians into your pagan traps, you break God's will. You must be punished."

She automatically shakes her head.

"You deny what I say, gypsy?"

"Of course I do. It's hard for me to agree when you diminish my people, my family, to just a bunch of... what was the word... heathens." She says, pulling her legs in on herself.

In the process, her skirt hitches up, displaying a flash of those beautiful legs. His eyes flicker over the expanse of dark skin, his fingers itching to touch. His face blanches, and his robes were suddenly becoming too hot.

He's silent, that surprises her. Her gaze darts up to his, only to see just what he was so focused on.

With an angry huff, she yanks down her skirt, skin crawling in repulsion. "I can't believe you," she says, anger coloring her tone.

The hollowness was gone. But instead of feeling triumphant at her combativeness, he simply feels shame. "What?"

"You going on, talking about how pious you are in killing my people, and then in the same sentence, ogle me like some piece of meat at the butchers. It's sick, and absolutely..." she struggles to find the word.

"Hypocritical?" he remarks dryly, his mind too addled by the whole situation to object to her accusations.

"Sure! Completely! And I'm sure you're going to blame me now, say I lured you, say I was the one who ensnared you," she says angrily.

He scowled. "Need I remind you of the Feast of Fools? You knew exactly what you wanted to do. You were completely capable of preventing what happened," he says bitterly. An old, buried anger was roaring in his veins, threatening to consume him.

She is on her feet, and turns to the bars. "Minister, I never meant to be your downfall. You did that yourself. I wanted to show them, that audience that we didn't need to fear you. That we had a choice. Fat lot of good that did me. You just... couldn't... stop yourself. And you know what? I don't have a damned clue why. Jesus Christ," she says.

"Do not take the Lord's name in vain," How can she not know why? His hands itch to strike out, to... bruise, to caress, to... to the heaven's above, he still doesn't know what he wants of her. Death or consummation? _Whichever gets her to still that wicked tongue,_ he thinks darkly.

"I've had enough of your sermons Minister. I've just about had it. I don't want you. I never did. Why do you insist on chasing after me?" she says.

With angry, jerking movements, she sits down on the floor again, arms crossed over her chest, glaring at him. For a moment, she looks, really looks at him.

"You should've just gone to a whorehouse," she blurts out.

At this comment, he rears up, nearly knocking over the small wooden bench at the center of the room. His teeth are clenched, his fists tight. "What?!" he hisses, venom spewing from his mouth.

She still stares defiantly up at him. "You only wanted me when I jumped into your lap in a skintight red dress. That, and your constant spewing of chastity and celibacy values, and I can only come to one conclusion. You're obsessed with it. Sex. It drives you insane, to the point of... hurting people. Then you wouldn't have burned down Paris."

"How can you suggest something so vile, so distasteful? I would never stoop so low, so... so far down into filth," he spits out, lurching forward.

Esmeralda feels her heart leap into her throat when he twitches towards her, and automatically raises her dagger. "Really? So nearly raping me on the bell-tower, that's not vile and distasteful?" she says in a quiet voice.

He freezes, each muscle tensing. Immediately, the memory comes flooding back. The way he had cornered her. The way he had crushed her, nearly killed her. Nearly violated her had it not been for that soldier that pulled him off her.

For one of the first times in his life, he had no defense. No response. He cannot very well say that he was not blame, for he remembered each moment on that fateful so clearly, with such painful clarity. He can remember her muffled scream as he had crushed her lips so violently, the way she wriggled and fought so valiantly against her attacker. The way her eyes widened, filled with tears as he hitched her skirt to her thighs...

Shame, hot shame flooded him. He had tried so desperately to forget. To move forward. But the scars were there, on both of them. The scars on her wrists from being tied to the pyre. The scars on his back as punishment for taking what wasn't his.

She waits for the piousness, the words of damnation hurled towards her. But nothing. Silence.

His eyes are cast from her, glaring at a point on the stone floors. Nothing. He says absolutely nothing and she still is afraid of him. She hates the creeping fear, hates the simple unknown of his silence. He was probably plotting to kill her now. Find a way to slam her into the floor... finish what he started.

She really hates how good her memory is. How all of a sudden, she can be transported to the floors of Notre Dame, can feel the cold stone seeping through a coarse white prisoner's shift, can smell smoke and fire all around... can feel his heavy dead weight on her, pressing, crushing... She swallows past a growing lump in her throat, one that prevents her from talking. One that silences her.

His final victory. She wants so badly to call him out, to confront him about that night... but it was those actions that now silenced her.

He waits for something. Anything.

But nothing. The two figures in the cell are speechless, rendered mute.

He feels an itching frustration, one that burrows beneath the skin. Something was wrong with her. Why would she just... stay silent? Why did her eyes look glazed over in fear, when before they burned?

She should be mute, he thinks.

Yet why was her silence so unsavory? It did not answer the deep seated questions that ache to be released from his tight jaw.

Why did you leave Paris? She never did answer that question, instead deflecting it with vague answers and redirection. She was hiding something.

The dangerous curiosity of a man too intelligent to accept silence as a proper response rears its head once more.

And suddenly, his words are accusing. "Why did you leave Paris?"

His words are sharp, stinging like a slap to the face. Her head snaps up, her throat still blocked by memories. And regrettably, the only thing she can say is "What?"

"You know what I said. You are no invalid. So answer me. Why did you leave Paris?" he drives onward, the maddening need for an answer forgoing any previous judgement.

Her mouth parts, that beautiful mouth once adept at hurling verbal knives through his frame. He sees a slight tremble in her jaw, one that has him reeling with the possibilities.

"I told you," she finally exhales through her lips, finding it hard to breathe, let alone speak around him.

A bitter, mocking laugh reverberates against the walls of the cell, surrounding her with its sharp, cutting sound. "I interrogate criminals as my duty, Esmeralda. And your answer is, in my professional opinion, a deflection from the truth. So, tell me. Why did you leave Paris?" he repeats with grim-faced determination.

Something sparks in her eyes, a reminder of the woman on the Feast of Fools. "I left Paris. Why do you care?" she accuses. A tactic. She aims the question at him to make him defensive... pushing the focus away from her.

Frollo smile is without joy as he considers his next move.

"Why did you leave Paris? And be specific, I so hate the usual trite hogwash your kind are so intent on spewing," he says mockingly.

"Would you like me to be specific?" she says before the words could be stopped. She snaps her lips tight over her teeth, realizing with horror what she said. No. No, she couldn't be weak before him.

But he had seen the anger, the fury that had colored her eyes and cheeks. And he wants... he needs more of it. "Specificity. Unless you wish to be a politician, I doubt vagueness has any benefit. I find that your lot tend to be most direct, uncouth even in their language," he says, his mocking tone setting her teeth on edge.

"Fine, you want direct? I left because... because of what happened," she says, failing in what she had wanted to say. _Because of you. _

"What had happened? My God, if you think that's specific, someone must instruct you on the truth of language," he says wryly, all the while calculatingly looking at her.

And suddenly she is on her feet, fists balled, stance apart.

"You want the truth? Well here it is. I left because I couldn't walk in the square without smelling smoke. I left because every time I walked down the street, I had to check and make sure one of your brutes wasn't chasing me, even when no one was there. I left because everyone but me had forgotten what you did. I left because I could not breathe, could not sleep while I still walked the streets that I nearly was killed on!"

The words hang heavy in the air, echoing in his ears. She feels so short of breath, the heavy words finally out from her mouth.

But the heaviness returns. _No. No no._ She had revealed her fears to her worst enemy. She... oh God, how could she be so stupid?  
>Esmeralda settles back down against her wall, her big green eyes flickering up to him. Her cheeks burned with mortification.<p>

So much anger, so much fear. It all radiates from her in waves. Frollo is reeling, reeling from the admission. He... he hadn't known. Not truly. And now the truth is etched so painfully on her face that he believes himself an imbecile for not seeing it before. It is so obvious. He is the monster that haunted her nightmares. The garish specter that still chases her in her sleep.

A painful stab of something jabs his chest, and he suddenly can't breathe.

Esmeralda shuts her eyes, and Frollo suddenly has a desperate desire to brush the hair from her face. To place his arms around her taut frame.

He banishes the thoughts form his mind, as quickly as they had appeared there. The dangerous temptations of a woman who wants him dead.

"Esmeralda..." he says, his voice gravelly, thick.

"No. Just... don't. Forget it," she says severely.

He's silent. _Probably thinking of all the ways to torment you,_ she thinks darkly. For the hundredth time, she feels stupid, foolish.

And then, in the silence of that cell... one, strongly voiced word rings out.

"Liar."

Esmeralda's head jerks up from her arms, her green eyes staring at him in confusion. Then, those same eyes narrow.

"What?!" she says in a breathless voice.

Frollo turns his indiscernible gaze at her. His brow knits together, his jaw is firmly set.

In that same, grave tone, he says, "Liar."

Esmeralda blinks once. Twice. Then feels a defensive surge. "And just what am I lying about?" she says, her voice so hollow. What would bring the fire, the courage back? Frollo is too far down this path, so he keeps going.

"I refuse to believe that the woman who once defied me, who once spat in my face on what should have been her funeral pyre, would be so weak as to let me be the monster in her nightmares. If you are looking to extract my sympathy with your obvious lie, then you will have to do much better than that," he says, all the while gauging her reaction. Eruption in five, four, three, two...

"Obvious lie? My God, you truly never understood, did you? You paint me in your mind as some demon, a powerful servant of Satan that would never back down. But you're wrong. I'm human. I feel. I fear. I fear. You've just never understood that because you see me as the devil," she shoots back, words burning from her mouth.

The words struck him. And for the first time, he sees her.

She was no witch. She hardly was the fearsome temptress he painted her to be.

Only a girl, a slip of a girl. Only a girl who had the courage to stand before a crowd and scream her threats at him, with hardly more than a weak dagger and a whole lot of nerve within her.

She's not the monster he once believed.

"How could I not, when you seem so content in leading me to the path of hell?" he remarks lowly, almost imperceptible to her ears. He needs to grasp onto the last thread of his once stable logic. No. She is the enemy. She has always been the heathen witch, he cannot feel otherwise.

The words he speaks are quiet. Hardly the most brutal of verbal attacks he has made.

But sound carries. And the words are the last straw.

She suddenly is above him, knife drawn, blade pointing at him. His gut twirls in anxiety as she towers above him. How did she get here so quickly? She is quivering, shaking from the raw emotion pouring from her.

"You know what your problem is? You refuse to blame yourself! You refuse to simply believe that you can be corruptible. Instead you blame everyone else. Why can't you just be a damn man and own up for what you've done? The countless lives you've snuffed out, innocent lives. Well, what kind of man is that? Blaming others just so he can escape being damned? You're not a monster. You're a coward!"

For a moment, she stands, knife in her palm, eyes narrowed in hatred. And her words, for one of the first time, wound him. He sees the girl, frightened in the square, clinging to a burning pyre. He sees a woman twisted by his own manipulations.

He sees his life, and her observations don't sit well with him. But... there seems to be truth there. A terrifying truth that he had never seen.

So he is silent, too shocked to fight her. Wondering when she'll take the knife and slit his forsaken throat.

Esmeralda looks at him. But she then looks at the knife.

"Not worth it." She says, lowering her arm. She stalks away to her corner and sinks down, as her own words suddenly occur to her.

He's no monster. Not for her. He's a pious, God-fearing coward.

And although he may be fearsome... the clarity that he's not a monster lifts some of the weight from her chest.

Her words seem to sufficiently shut him up, she decides as she stares at him. She doesn't care of what he thinks. Not anymore.

Silence presses on both of them. But the uneasiness has left, replaced by a mutual need to be quiet. Because the words they aim at each other are too harmful to continue.

Esmeralda barely looks at him. He doesn't matter. He's nothing; not a monster, a coward. A man. A worthless man.

The worthless man in question can't look at her. But for different reasons. Oh she matters to him. Matters more that she should. And her words, her terrible words like poison slowly sapping his form of strength... he has heard words hurled towards him. Monster, fiend, destroyer; but never coward. His pride, his sinful pride feels attacked. And yet, he cannot shake off her words as easily as before. He cannot simply ignore them

This whole affair... chasing her once again... being trapped in the same cell. Taking in her presence... letting her through the once iron-clad defenses.

It unnerves him. It maddens him.

He can't be wrong. No. He can't...

Can he?

For what seems like an eternity, they sit in silence. Esmeralda at last feels... as if she can breathe once again.

Monsters weren't so scary when you saw them for what they were.

Finally... sounds echo down in the hallway. The clinking of keys. Esmeralda immediately is on her feet, knives in hand.

The soldiers are coming... but they are led by Clopin.

"Clopin!" she calls out.

Her brother breaks out into a run towards the cell, panic in his eyes as he reaches the entrance of the cell. His hands are shaking, the keys rattling around his fingers as he unlocks the door. "Esmeralda! What did he do?! Did he-" His eyes are wide with absolute terror as he scans over her, checking for marks, injury, the signs of a struggle.

"I'm fine. He's fine too, in case you're going to accuse me of anything," she aims towards the soldiers who stand a good distance from her brother. A few of them are bruised and cut. She sees Brutus, as well as a few other members of her caravan, standing behind them. It's quite clear a skirmish occurred between them.

Clopin grabs her tight, pulling her out of the cell. The way he clenches her tight reminds her of when she had once gotten lost in Paris as a child. She squeezes his shoulder, trying to assure the rattled jester as best she could.

"Did he do anything?" he hisses, his brown eyes darting from her to the minister in the cell.

Frollo watches as she assures him, barely hearing her words. He's too preoccupied with the chaos that brews in his own mind.

The soldiers are there, the absolutely useless men, looking worse for wear. He can't speak, can't berate them. It's only when one of the men stands right in front of him, timidly inquiring of his state of being, that he finally rises to his feet, folding his arms in front of him. He needed to close himself off from his surroundings, isolate himself from the rabble

He exits the cell, to see the faces the gypsy horde, glaring and ready to attack at their small queen's command. He does not look at her, cannot look at her when her gaze scrapes across wounds so raw so very fresh. Coward. She calls him a coward... for not blaming himself...

He can't be wrong, can he? He... he was justified. Wasn't he?

The soldiers look to him for orders. But he cannot find his tongue, the one weapon that he thought could never be taken from him.

His mind...where is his mind?

Frollo's back is to her. Esmeralda's smile of relief fades as she realizes that there is the little matter of her promise to him.

She clutches to her brother. Clopin's gaze darts down to her panicked one. "Esmeralda?"

"I... I made a deal.. and I intend to keep it," she says back to him.

Frollo hears the words above the cacophonic din of his agitated thoughts. No. He cannot escort her to the boundaries of Paris. Not like this. Not after that.

She would destroy him.

He turns his head minutely, glancing at her through his peripheral vision. He speaks quietly, his voice gravelly, "No."

Esmeralda is taken aback, and flinches. "What do you mean?" she asks, puzzled.

"I said no," he says sharply.

The soldiers mutter among themselves.

"Out, all of you. Out!" he hisses to the men.

"But sir, the girl-"

"I said out, lieutenant. Do not make me repeat myself again!" he spits out.

Esmeralda's mouth hangs open as her mind wildly ponders and flips through the various scenarios that could result of this, of his sudden inability to answer a damn question. "I..."

"Do not even speak to me!" he grits out. Pain, inexorable pain clutches at his chest, as uncertainty, dangerous and all too prevalent, addles his mind.

"Sister, should we let this rat out?" Clopin asks, his hand clenching her shoulder.

Esmeralda frowns. What did Frollo's words mean? Could she stay in her home, or would he simply come after her again? Was the deal on or off?

She knows the consequences very well if she let her brother have his way. The way involving swords, nooses, and lots of blood.

"No. He's not worth a war," Esmeralda replies firmly.

Clopin looks at her in conjecture. But seeing the firm, steely gaze, he nods.

"You may leave... but I suggest you stay out, old man. Next time, you'll see quite the show from my performers," he says, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he pats Brutus on the head.

Frollo does not respond. How could he, when he struggles to grip onto the last scant shreds of his logic that dissipate before his eyes?

He stalks away, his head bowed for once. And as Esmeralda stares at his retreating back, she wonders: why?

xxx

Thanks for reading! And thanks to the last reviewer who alerted me that I had put my chapter up in the wrong text form (would've been horrible to read, oops on my part! :) Class is starting up, so I thought I'd write some Fresme angst ;) Thanks again for reading and reviewing! -Cgal


	9. Chapter 8

If the walls of Claude Frollo's bedroom could speak, they would have weaved dark tale mired in the madness of their master. As Frollo shuffled lamely into his room that night, ignoring Bonhomme and any servant who dared to speak to him, his mind reeled with her bitter words. Coward

_Coward_

Coward. The fearful one who makes others fear him. _Why can't you just blame yourself?!_

_Why can't you just be a damn man and own up for what you've done?_

He furiously paces the stone floors, his mind filled to the brim with her fire, scalding him, her words twisting him in the same manner as the bludgeoning tools of a blacksmith do to a white hot metal bit.

_Bang! Coward_

_Crash! You refuse to simply believe that you can be corruptible._

_Slam! Why Can't you just blame yourself?!_

Each blow, each verbal hit slams into him with all the force of a sledgehammer, rattling him to his bones. He feels as if she has stretched him to the breaking point, pulling, ripping, tearing at the final remains of sanity and logic.

_I did what I must, for my duty, for my city!_ He objects inwardly, his hands automatically clasping in prayer.

Her face flashes before him, twisted in rage. _My people are of this city._

_They are heathens, far from God._

_What about you Minister? Are you so Godly, are you so mighty and good?_

His hands quiver. _Yes,_ he replies, but the words are hollow, shaky at best. And suddenly, she is before him in her mind's eye, terrified, quivering in fear before him. But instead of satisfaction he can only feel shame. It feels like grime on his skin, thick, potent, irreversible. The bright woman on the Feast of Fools transforms, shifting into this tired, beaten replacement.

_Not so beaten, _he tries to remind himself, trying to conjure the cold feeling of her knife against his neck. But nothing comes, he can't control his mind. He's scrabbling on a slippery slope with bleeding fingers, unable to find purchase, unable to keep his psyche from slipping, tumbling into doubt.

_Stop, please, stop!_ He beseeches the deity that he had given his life to, the God above that should have stepped in long ago. But all that can be heard is silence. Stifling, suffocating, silence.

_I was in the right,_ he repeats, over and over, as his past actions flash before him. But her words still echo in his ears. _Coward._

Of course, he feared the pit of Satan. A fool would be absolutely mad to remain entirely foolhardy and sinful, in his opinion.

Flames, oh God, the flames of that hellish pit, Inhabited by the worst of humanity. It could not be his fate, could it? Not him, not the man who spent his life in the light of Notre Dame, not the man who hunted the demons of his city?

His hands keep clenching, nails digging into his own pale flesh. _Nail you wish were her own digging into your frame as she screams for you..._

"Stop!" he cries aloud, his knees giving out, sending him careening down to the floor.

_Are you so blameless? Did you not yearn for her kiss and touch, did you not force yourself onto her as she struggled for freedom?_ The dark voice that sounds alarmingly like her own was poisoning him.

_Did you not like that look of fear as she cried?_

_Did you not like to mash your lips onto her own unwilling ones?_

_Did you not like how she squirmed?_

_Did you not like how her body writhed against your own?_

_Did you not like when she threw curses at you as easily as knives?_

He presses his head to the cold stone, panting as his mind reels, taking on a life of its own.

_Let it end... let it end..._

Xxx

He huddles in the shadows of his room, sniveling like a child as hellish visions spring before him. Visions of her screaming, of her running. Of her berating him.

Monster. If only he could be just that. Her monster.

A servant knocks. He yells hoarsely for them to leave. Of course they do, without delay.

Why disobey their monstrous master?

Xxx

His stomach is empty, but hunger does not come. He feels sick just thinking of food.

The days are blurring into each other. The only thing that he can possibly stand is the sweet wine he forces down his throat each night. He can disappear into oblivion.

Oh, cruel, cruel mind. Cruel, clever mind that can so easily conjure her voice, her very words as easily as his own. He has his remedies, but even after a bottle or two, she's still there, damning him. Damning the pathetic monster who can't see the point anymore.

It takes two more to finally banish the visions and slump onto his bed, blackness pressing onto his eyes.

Xxx

No more. _No more, no more no more no more no more_

xxx

She hears rumors. Startling ones that could never be true.

As Esmeralda walked home from her usual work, she came across two men seated by the fire. Their conversation was hushed, but being the inquisitive (eavesdropping) girl she was, it was quite easy to overhear what they spoke of.

"I think he's gone mad."

"You can't believe all the stuff that comes from the help, Pierre! Half the time they make up stories to amuse themselves," Mihai replied.

Pierre shook his head, ran a dark hand through his knotted hair. "No, it's different this time. I mean... you can see it can't you? The way the streets are. No guards, no patrols... its as if the whole city's stopped. He hasn't been seen in days."

"Who hasn't been seen in days?" Esmeralda said casually, using this opportunity to enter the conversation. Used to her interruptions, the men simply chuckled at her.

But then Pierre's face turned solemn. "Why, the venerable Judge Frollo of course."

Esmeralda had to hide her shock. She masked it with indignation. "What does that old bastard have to do with anything?" she said.

Pierre chuckled. "While he's an old bastard, he at least had habits. But now... little miss, have you noticed something in the past weeks? Something... different?"

"If you mean I've gotten much better payment for my dances, then yes," Esmeralda said wryly.

"Well then. The answer lies right before you. Why would it be so easy for you to get new customers, hmm?"

Esmeralda's thoughts screeched to a halt. Suddenly, things began to click in her, mind, come together. The lack of guards. The laziness of the soldiers. More lootings every night.

_He hasn't been seen in days. _

"So, if he's not outside, where is the bastard?" she said, still hiding her shock behind scorn.

"I dunno. Probably in the Palace. Where else would he be?"

Esmeralda fell silent for the rest of the night. Perhaps it was time she paid a visit.

Xxx

Sneaking into the Palace of Justice is incredibly easy. Too easy in fact. She has a brief inkling that it's all a trap... but then she sees how the guards doze at their positions. No scheming there.

She makes her way down the halls, stifling a shiver. She had always hated this place. Always. It gave her the shivers.

She pads silently down the halls. Most of the doors she tries are locked. The man is so paranoid, even in his own home he doesn't let anything be open.

She tries every door, heart leaping in her chest each time her hand closes around the handles. It would be too easy to be caught, to be dragged down to the famed dungeons and chained in the realm of the monster.

But she steadies herself. And tries the final door.

The knob turns in her hand, and if her heart is racing before, it positively _sprints_ now. She stares at the knob, debating whether she would like what she would find. It's probably another empty room. _Let go, and go home_, she orders herself.

But the thing about those kind of thoughts, was that they usually never prevailed. Oh no. She was too curious for her own good.

With a flick of her wrist, she opens the door. And enters the lion's den.

The moment she steps inside, the smell of spirits overwhelmed her nostrils, the scent intoxicating in itself.

When her eyes adjust, she could see a large window, bare, stone floors. Turning her eyes to the right, she saw a fireplace, long burned out, big, gaping, as if it were the mouth of some beast.

"Out!"

The word startles her, causing her to whip her head over to the darkened figure slumped in bed. He is veiled in shadow, a part of the darkness that shrouds the bed covers.

He mutters something incoherently, a garbled string of abuses against her. But instead of retreating... she steps forward, into the moonlight... letting the mighty Claude Frollo know just who is bold enough to enter his domain.

He sharply inhales, a choked breath that echoes in the room.

"Not you, anyone but you!" he chokes out.

Esmeralda steps forward again... only to step on something smooth and oddly shaped. "Ouch!" she hisses, and she looked down... to see a myriad of jugs and wine bottles at her feet.

_He's drunk, _she realizes.

For a moment, she debates whether or not to leave. To simply retreat. He's certainly intoxicated enough that he can forget this entire arrangement occurred.

But... curiosity, dangerous as it was, overwhelms her.

So instead, she takes out tinder. She needs light. She didn't like this mystery, especially with someone as unpredictable as him.

With a sharp, scraping noise, she strikes the tinder and lights one of the solitary lamps in the room, temporarily blinding herself.

When her eyes adjust once more, her heart clenched at what she saw. A pale, perspiring Frollo, wrapped in twisted stained sheets. Bottle in hand. Cowering in fear from the light. In all the times she had seen the man, he was... particular, neurotic even in his appearance, hair clipped so short and fine that it resembled boar bristles. But now... now his hair was untidy, lanky even. He hadn't shaved in a while, that was certain by the craggy whiskers that now adorned his chin.

His eyes were the worst though. Deadened. Reddened by... tears?

She has to stifle her own gasp, instead attempting to remain... calm.

"Get out... please out... I can't... I can't dream of you... not tonight... why can't you just leave me be?!" he groans rubbing frantically at his eyes.

She takes in a deep, steadying breath.

"I'm not a dream Frollo. I'm here. I just... give me a minute," she says hoarsely.

He simply gapes at her.

She needed to say... something... "Didn't you once say it was rude to hang your mouth open like a fish?" she blurts out.

He blinks at her, with no other response. _Well, great job, Esmeralda. You now sound like his mother,_ she thinks sarcastically.

With some trepidation, she comes forward... and she sees him cower back, back into his bed frame. She frowns. Was he... afraid of her?

"I... I'm not going to hurt you... just don't jump me, got it?" she says.

He is still so silent, it was frightening. She slowly comes forward, and hit her foot against one of the many bottles. Biting back a curse, she looked down and plucks up one of the glass containers.

"How many?" she asks quietly, turning the bottle over. It was empty.

He still doesn't respond.

"Frollo... how many?" she repeats.

Finally, in a rough, yet small voice, he says, "This week or today?"

She gives a wan, tired smile. "Today."

His gaze shifts from hers, his bloodshot eyes disappearing behind relaxed lids. He breaths in, and she can see his lips mouth numbers. One... two...

He stops, and turns his gaze to hers. "I don't know," he says lowly.

"Hmmph," she exhales. If she had been in a lighter mood, she would have taunted him to no end.

But... there was something so grim about him. And something told her Claude Frollo was not a happy drunk.

"Well, judging by that response, and the amount of bottles in here... I'd say four or six... I mean, I only know from Clopin, but you're a little bigger than he is..." she quips. Usually, with drunks it was best to keep the mood light.

"Clopin..." he drawls, slurring the word.

Esmeralda approaches closer, and sits at the foot of the bed, at the furthest corner away from him. "Yes. My brother... he's quite... well, let's just say, when he drinks, he drinks," she says. She was rambling now... But what could someone say to their worst enemy when they were cowering and stinking drunk in bed?

Frollo gives her a curt, sharp nod. He takes another swig from the bottle, closing his eyes for a moment. He lets out a shaky exhale, and Esmeralda sees his hand tremble.

"Minister?" she asks, in a firm voice. He doesn't respond, doesn't acquiesce her.

So she tried something different. "Claude?" she ventures, almost timidly.

His eyes shoot open and he stares at her as if she had spontaneously grown two heads. His eyes blaze, spark in such a volatile way, that she wonders just what exactly churns about in his head.

"No... no one's ever called me Claude... and yet it is the woman who most fears me that even dares to call me that," he says hollowly.

She blinked. "I'm not scared of you..." she lies.

"Why ever not? I am." He says.

Her entire face softens. "Claude..." she starts but suddenly, a burst of speech, he begins to fall apart.

"I'm afraid. I'm so afraid. Because I am the monster they all fear. I'm afraid because I have no fucking clue who I am, what I will do, when I'm around you. I'm rash. I'm illogical. I make terrible, terrible decisions. Why?" he says demandingly.

She can't respond, so he charged forward, only slightly slurring his words.

"Whenever I see you... I... I feel so... torn... I want to stay away, have some god-forsaken peace for myself. Finally think clearly. But then I can't bear staying away, can't bear to not see your face... I know I can't... I can't want you, but I still imagine you... with me... in my bed... I want to see you smile... and I want to hear you scream my name... I want... I want things that I shouldn't, and it tears me apart. I have no claim to you. I see that now. But I still want you. I want you... but not in the simple way of lust. That would be more bearable... I want... I want..." it's at this point that Esmeralda sees his eyes glaze with what she believes are tears.

He suddenly cuts himself off, choosing to turn from her. "I'm a monster. I'm a cowardly monster. I see the things I've done... I've seen all those I kill. I didn't used to. But now I see them... every... every... I see them all," he chokes out.

He raises the bottle to his lips... only for it to be restrained by Esmeralda's firm hand. He shoots a pitiful glance at her, with weak, bleary eyes.

Her chest is tightening so painfully, she can't breathe. His words betray a broken man, a creature of the dark now maddened by his very haunts.

He was destroying himself.

She should feel grateful that he's finally breaking down, that the tyrant is at last overthrown.

She tries to remember their night in the cell... such angry, bitter words were thrown about, almost careless in how they were scattered about. He was so...so... angry.

But in a way, it had been him that had brought her back. It had been him who had poked and prodded her to finally realizing he was still a man. Not the monster hiding in her dreams. But a man who she could deal with.

In a twisted sense... he had healed her.

She stares at him, the debate raging, etched in her face.

She tests the waters. "Then change."

Claude's gaze flickers to hers.

She steels herself for protestations, for drunk rants and fury. But she hears nothing.

So she goes on. "Change, Claude," she says, testing the new name in her mouth. She does not lose her nerve and stares him straight in the red-rimmed eyes. "If you are so ashamed of what you've done, then change it. For the people you've harmed, yes, it is too late... but for the rest, it isn't," she says firmly.

A choked noise erupts from him, and she realizes after her initial alarm, that he's laughing. "Is it really? What good can I do them, when all I am suited for is destruction and judgement. No. Better to languish away... disappear into oblivion," he slurs.

He raises the bottle once more, but strong hands, strong, bold, petulant hands, snatch it away from him and throw it across the room.

His gaze snaps up to hers and he growls in absolute fury, the sound rumbling into her bones. She's reminded of a wolf, all claws, snarls, and teeth.

Anger surging in his veins, he grabs the very bold chit and pulls her clumsily underneath him, pinning her with his body. Her heart leaps into her throat, and panic sets in, raw, familiar, panic. Frollo pants, anger and lust somehow becoming one hot, roiling wave of feeling.

Her beautiful, flawless features are twisted in a snarl, as her breast heaves, straining over the cut of her blouse. He's enraptured by their swell, and his already foggy head swims with absolute rapture.

Teeth bared in response to the hot flesh that bears down upon her body, Esmeralda thrashes and fights with more ferocity than ever, about to reach for her dagger.

The movement of her hands to fetch that trusty article shock Frollo back to his senses, however frayed they are. With a rasping gasp, he jerks away from her, clawing at his own skin, wishing her scent wasn't branded on his clothes, his skin, wishing he could forget the way her soft, lithe form felt against his own. He gracelessly collapses on the other side of the bed, limbs curled in, body facing away from her.

Esmeralda stares at the ceiling, heart racing, cheeks flushed with heat. Her hands, once firmly on her dagger, shake. He... he stopped. She had thought for sure he wouldn't... but he stopped.

The panic still mounts in her body, but she feels more in control. She slowly turns, to see the minister, crumpled in on himself like a child. His entire frame trembles, perspiration trickling down the back of his neck to his stained, translucent undershirt.

It's then she sees the scars. His shirt's been sweated through, so it's not too difficult to trace the whip's path on his alabaster skin. Layers of wounds interlace on his skin, creating a canvas of pain and torture.

Her lower lip catches itself on her teeth. How many times had this man been beaten? _Are you truly so naïve? Of course he was beaten! He should be, for what he's done to so many people. _

But the words feel cruel. It alarms her that she should feel pity for him. But she does, a pity that swells in her breast. She tries to discard the feeling, tries to push it down.

Oh God, why did she come at all?

She hears a ragged breath, one torn from a clenched throat. Then, a voice croaks from the trembling form.

"Why do you insist on goading me when you know how dangerous I am? I have tried to understand, to restrain myself. But each time, you insist on putting yourself in harms way..." he remarks hoarsely.

He shifts away, trying to forget. "I don't feel in control anymore," he says hollowly.

Esmeralda stares at the map of scars on his back. The whole situation feels so surreal. "Why... why don't you feel in control? Because I won't be yours? Because I'm the one person you can't force into doing your bidding?" she remarks suspiciously.

"If only... it were that simple," he softly mutters, his voice so low that were the room not completely silent, she would have never heard that.

"Claude... please look at me," she says, breath hitching with fear.

Frollo is suddenly paralyzed. His arms clutch at his chest as his heart pounds violently, banging against his ribcage with each painful beat.

She sees his head shake in answer to the question. She purses her lips.

"Please look at me," she entreats softly, as if speaking to a skittish animal.

Not wanting to seem like a coward, he turns, bloodshot eyes meeting emerald. She slowly bends down to his eyelevel. For a moment the intimacy of the situation makes his head swim. He has the overwhelming urge to pull her body into his arms, inhale her sweet scent.

His hands twitch, wanting to touch... but he instead grips at his dirtied nightshirt, forcing himself not to pull her lithe form towards him.

Esmeralda can see the fire raging in his eyes. Once tempered by his cold, stern demeanor, it now burns unfettered. He does want her. But, fear still does not clench around her heart. He looks too weak, too guilty to look at her, let alone touch her.

Somewhat assured, she stares at his features. "Why don't you feel in control?" she murmurs softly.

His dark eyes disappear behind pale eyelids and his mouth opens. But he feels her hand quickly but firmly tap at his arm. "No Claude. Look at me," she murmurs calmly.

She can see his whole frame tremble as his bloodshot eyes reappear. Although his head swims with drink and distress... her visage appears before him with startling, almost painful, clarity.

He hates the vulnerability, the absolute nakedness of both his body and soul. Her green eyes can see everything. The scars on his back, the tears that form involuntarily in his eyes, the trembling of his limbs are displayed like some sideshow attraction for her to ogle at.

The intensity of those green eyes... usually, she casts the fiery gaze of judgement of hatred upon him. But now, in the stifling silence, her eyes burn into him with an emotion he can't name... like curiosity, but deeper.

Esmeralda watches as he shifts uneasily before her, dingers twisting at his nightshirt like an anxious child. She can see he wants to turn away... but she can't let him.

She turned away all too often from people willing to help, and they had simply accepted her avoidance. She can't let him make that mistake.

"Whenever I see you... I feel... out of control... simply because _I am_. All my life, I've made it through the political factions, the schemes by shutting down emotion. By running on logic, the mind..." he trails off, his eyes becoming unfocused.

"And when you see me... logic doesn't exactly work?" she asks quietly, placidly.

His eyes trace every contour of the face before him. Her beautiful, beautiful face so often twisted into a mocking sneer, a visage of hate.

But there is no hate in her eyes. No anger. Only calmness, a stillness that rivals any secluded pool of water.

"Quite the opposite," he hoarsely says, rubbing at his tired eyes.

"Okay... let me see if I have this right... you feel out of control because whenever you see me, you can't use your great big judicial intelligence around me... you actually feel emotion, like every other human being," she says, and he can sense an undercurrent of skepticism in her voice.

"Is it really that simple?" he retorts defensively.

"No, of course not. If it were simple, every suitor chasing a woman would instantly stop. Every woman marrying a man for money and not love would instantly feel affection for her husband. Emotions aren't simple, Claude. They can't be controlled and suppressed as easily as stamping a scroll. They're complicated. They're fucking hard," she says, laughing softly.

He frowns, too far gone to correct her language. But her words still seep in nonetheless. "I just want peace. I just want to be able to sleep," he nearly groans.

Esmeralda props herself up on her elbow, her red lips screwing into a frown of puzzlement. As her gaze shifts from him to an unseen point to contemplate his statement, he studies her intently, eyes raking over her relaxed posture, her wrinkled nose, her lips. How is it that even now, even when he has no right to do so, he can't help but feel a strange thrill that she's here, in his bed? Even when her intentions against him are so plain, he can't help but wish she would wriggle closer to him, whisper words of empty comfort in his ear, and kiss him.

His very heart aches with the pure pointlessness of it all.

When she finally looks back at him, she sees his own eyes dart down in embarrassment, reminding her of a child caught sneaking sweets. She blinks, finding it so odd that he seems so timid now, when outside of these walls, he's such a fearsome, raving figure.

She tries to brush aside the incident. As she stares at him, something occurs to her. Why not ask it, he's so drunk he won't remember anyway? "Have you ever been in love before?"

He then shoots her such a withering look that she automatically knows what his answer will be. "No," he retorts, and he rolls his eyes.

"All right then. Have you ever courted a woman before?" she asks lazily.

"No."

It's then her eyebrows rise. "No? Not anyone? I don't mean formally, I just meant..."

"I knew what you meant, and my answer remains unchanged," he clips, his voice still flat and humorless.

She tilts her head, staring at him in disbelief. "Childhood sweetheart? Unrequited love? Infatuation? Anything?" she prods, her eyes flashing.

He sighs, a long-suffering sound. "Nothing. While you were busy cavorting about the streets, flirting with boys and being a general nuisance, I was busy with studies and becoming a good man of the church. Women were and still are, distractions." He says.

"Even as a kid you were a stick in the mud," she grumbles under her breath.

"What?" he counters, hearing her words still.

"Nothing. So...you've never actually... wanted someone. Flirted with someone... in fact.. I probably was the first person to kiss you besides your mother, wasn't I?" she asks, and he can see anxiety in her eyes.

Her gaze seemed to pity him, and he suddenly felt cornered. "There is no shame in remaining celibate." Muttering under his breath, he admits, "It just presents some... difficulties."

"I'll say," she comments wryly. She stares at him, her gaze serious.

"So... it really could have been anyone who danced that day. It didn't have to be me. It could've been anyone who gave you the slightest bit of attention and you would have... pursued them," she concludes.

His gaze snaps to her own, and he instantly blurts out, "Not anyone."

Esmeralda folds her arms. "How can you say that? I'm pretty sure that any woman who had danced for you that day, you would have gone after them in a heartbeat."

"Except it mattered what kind of dance. And it mattered... what you did afterwards," he says nearly incoherently.

She frowns, a petulant, but serious look that he sees all too often. Then, she asks, "Afterwards?"

Frollo sighs, a long, mournful exhale of breath, and leans his head back against the pillow, weariness present in the lines of his face.

He decides whether or not the words that tumble around haphazardly in his head should be given a voice. But his mouth already moves, loosened by drink and her nearness. "No one has ever felt the need to challenge me before. When you defied me... I thought you impertinent. Irritating. But..." he trails off.

"But?" she remarks, eyebrow arching over her blazing eye.

"There was... something... something of you that stirred my own desire. Awakened the sinful impulses I've never felt before."

"My looks?" she remarks dryly, rolling her eyes.

He scowls at her. "Believe it or not, I have come into contact with women who are just as beautiful, if not more-so than you. At least they have..." he suddenly cuts himself off, but she guesses what he's about to say.

"The proper skin color? Proper breeding?" Esmeralda accuses, folding her arms as a look of pure aggravation slips onto her face. Frollo stares at her dumbly. No. He hadn't meant that. Not really. Because in fact her dark skin is so very alluring, despite the negative connotations on her status. Because he can't imagine her lily-white and polite. There's a terrible, wild beauty to her coarse manners, her need to swear... one that stirs his thoughts.

He lied. There were no other women as beautiful as she. But if he admitted that... he stifles a shudder at the consequences.

Esmeralda can see the indecision and struggle right there on his face. Her harsh gaze softens minutely. "You're a prick. A racist, bigoted prick. But something tells me you are very, very, very confused on the subject of me," she says, pursing her lips.

"No, I'm not. You came into my life, and then chaos ensued. You challenged me, and suddenly my beliefs feel fruitless. I have no confusion that you have caused me turmoil...I simply want peace again. But how can I be peaceful when every time I must sentence a gypsy, I see your face? How can I go about my duty when I hear your voice... screaming at me... berating me... blaming me?" he says in a rush of air, the words tumbling from his lips before he can stop them.

"Not my fault that you actually developed a conscience," she replies firmly.

"I've always been moral."

"...To those that fit in your narrow world. Did you ever consider that there were good people who weren't white, rich, and born to a good family?" she retorts hotly, her calmness quickly dissipating, replaced by aggravation.

He remains silent, tongue weighed down. If he was confused before, he's in absolute turmoil now. And suddenly, her gaze shifts, becoming one of... pity.

"You know, you could have changed things. You have that power. If you weren't you... if you were... better... you could have made people think of us differently. They wouldn't throw rocks at us in the street, we could have a chance of getting decent jobs instead of stealing. If anyone could have changed things... it would have been you. But there was just one problem..."

He stares at her, ego stinging from her calm yet biting words. She continues: "You never knew us," she finished.

His head shifts and he turns his focus to the ceiling, his head reeling and pounding from both drink and her.

Esmeralda hears a long tired sigh exhale from his lips. "Has it all been for naught then?" he accuses but the characteristic acidity of his tongue feels like a charade for his own benefit. She tilts her head, still out of her depth. _But what does it matter, he won't remember it tomorrow,_ she reminds herself, the glass bottles littering the floor attesting to her claim.

"Not all. But we are suffering, Frollo. My family suffers under your reign. You say we are just a pack of thieves. But how could we possibly not steal for our food if no one will trust us to walk behind them, let alone work for them?" she says firmly.

"And what do you propose I do about it? Let your heathen brethren run amuck in the streets? Legalize their criminal activities!"

"Perhaps you shouldn't assume that the slightest bit of tolerance would cause us to absolutely rebel!" she cries out indignantly, and he can hear the aggravation coloring her words.

Livid with rage, she rolls out of the bed, straightening her clothes and he can see her intention to leave. "Wait," he utters his voice suddenly weakened.

She hears the new tone of voice, and the hairs on the back of her neck stand straight up as she freezes.

His addled mind cannot help but crawl towards her, can it? He should feel disgust at the weakness, at his sniveling cries for her company.

But although she torments him, he cannot be alone. He cannot let her slip from his fingers, even if he cannot touch her in the usual sense.

"Please..." the wretched words tear from his lips. Pathetic, absolutely pathetic. He's too far gone to care.

She slowly turns, and he can see her discomfort and absolute baffled expression. "Please..." he repeats, his lips twitching around the word, it might have been repeated twice or thrice more, he can't tell.

Esmeralda looks at the pitiful man whose entire body twists towards her. She's still so angry with him... and yet... pity swells in her breast.

Suspicious of his intentions, she slowly lowers herself onto the bed, eyes never leaving his. In that moment, she seems his taut frame relax minutely, and it makes her wonder why she of all people affects him so strongly?

She knows that talking to him is getting her nowhere. She's said all she wanted to say. So she sits there, and waits for him to make his counterattack, his harsh slap of a comment that will send her running out, cursing his name.

Her expectant stare burns holes in his skin. The pressure to just say something mounts in the room, the air heavy and oppressive on his skin.

He swallows past the growing lump in his throat. In her emerald stare he sees his pitiful face. He can see every gypsy there in her gaze, crying for help. He can see her own struggling form as he tried to...

A choked gasp wrenches from his throat, causing her to stumble back. He runs a tense hand over his face, wanting to just disappear into sweet oblivion.

"I'm sorry," he finally chokes out.

Esmeralda's heart nearly stops. "What?" she utters, shock in her wide eyes.

He removes his shaking hand from his face, fisting at the sheets as he stares into those impossibly large eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispers, his scratchy voice breaking on the three syllables. Perhaps that shall appease her. To admit fault. To just crumble before her.

There is no satisfaction in her gaze... only shock.

Exhaustion floods his bones as the drink finally incapacitates him. Esmeralda swims in his gaze, and the world tilts on its axis as he lowers his head to the pillow, the room spinning around him. He breathes in deeply, to smell her evocative, sweet scent that brings hot tears to his eyes.

Esmeralda tilts her head, eyeing his sleeping face. There's a small pang of shock at seeing him do something all so human... sleep. His facial muscles relax minutely, and she can still see his inner battle raging. The grim downward turn of his mouth, his tense brow... they all paint the portrait of a man at war with himself.

And for some reason, born from morbid curiosity, she leans over and places her shaking fingers on the riot of silver hair on his head. She flinches, expecting him to lurch up and grip her fingers in his own biting ones.

But he doesn't move, save for the small twitch in his facial muscles. And she's surprised to feel soft, if thick, hair against her fingertips. Her heart pounds, and her mouth became dry as she considers his words of admitted guilt. Despite herself, her fingers curl gently over his scalp... until she hears a low moan of longing pass from his lips. She snatches back her fingers as if she's been burned, trying to shake off the feeling of his soft hair against her skin. A low sigh breathes from his mouth, another action that keeps reminding her that the monster who stalked her dreams is only a man.

She lingers too long at his bedside, her eyes mapping out the lines of his sleeping face, the etched, tight lines at his brow, the suspicious wetness at the hollows of his eyes. Her head spins in reaction to the absolute turmoil she has just played witness to.

What was gained by tonight? Admission of his guilt? Getting to see him cower and snivel like a weak and pathetic mongrel? She wishes she could find simple satisfaction out of his pathetic self. It would make things so much clearer.

But instead, her eyes still trace out the lines of his face, and a strange sadness settles in her chest. She bends down, and hesitantly speaks.

"You won't hear me... I... I don't know why I'm doing this... I never meant for any of this to happen... I just... want things to change..." she swallows past a lump in her throat.

"It is your fault. I just wish you would actually change things instead of wallowing in pity," she says, a little more bite in her words.

She pulls back from him, her face flushed as she realizes how intimate this all is. Her skin feels too hot as she quickly slips out of bed... his bed... and hurriedly ties on her cloak. She feels so much like a fugitive leaving the scene of a crime, her blood pulsing frantically, sweat running down the back of her neck as her muscles quiver with nervous energy.

He unsettles her so deeply it makes her stomach twist in knots. Esmeralda grabs the lantern, and quickly snuffs out the light, plunging the room into darkness.

She does not even wait for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. Esmeralda quickly runs across the stone floors, wincing as her feet hit the unpredictable disarray of bottles at the foot of the bed. Heart leaping into her throat, she departs from the room, quietly fleeing from the lion's den with as much speed as her legs can allow.

When she emerges from the fortress, her skin is aflame, and her heart beats with panic. The cool air does nothing to soothe her troubled mind. Of course she knew Frollo was not some monster lurking in the shadows... but she hadn't expected to see him... weakened... babbling every last fear ingrained in his skull... becoming all too human.

When she finally slows her frantic gait, she has to lean against an alley wall, panting as she closes her eyes. As she flickers her gaze to look up at the night sky, she raises her trembling hand, the same one that had traced over his silver hair, to her chest, cradling it.

He would never change. It would be too much wishful thinking to hope this was the moment.

_He won't remember, _she thinks.

If only she could forget.

xxx

Hey! School has kept me really busy, so updates will be slow... but don't worry, I'm not abandoning these stories! Hope you enjoyed the chapter! Happy holidays! -Cgal


	10. Chapter 9

He awakens from a dreamless sleep, temples pounding angrily. A low, gravely groan tears from his vocal chords, a cry he instantly regrets as the very sound causes his entire head to burst into throbbing pain.

He shuts his eyes, the very little light that leaks in through the thick, musty curtains blinding him in its intensity. The room no longer lurches as it had the previous night... but the silence, the stillness presses on his ears, unnerving him just as much.

His throat and mouth are dry, indescribably parched. There's a hollow buzzing sound in his ears, one that irritates him to no end.

As Frollo slowly rolls onto his back, memories of the night before flood into his skull, disjointed, covered by the hazy veil of drunken memory. And although he believes himself mad, he cannot help but know, deep within his bones that _she_ had been there.

_Esmeralda. _

His mouth moves around her name, his tongue curving around its exotic syllables. He struggles to remember what happened after she had stumbled in, eyes bright in the dim lamplight. She had moved towards him... but there was no anger in her gaze.

She had spoken to him, hadn't she?

A pounding headache assails at his temples as he contemplates her appearance. He fists the coverlet, fingers digging into the thick fabric as each memory causes another stab of pain to go shooting through his skull.

_I want to see you smile... and I want to hear you scream my name..._

Oh God. Oh dear God in heaven. Shame and mortification bloom within him, and he feels sick to his stomach. He had actually uttered those foolish, weak words to her of all people.

What had possessed him? He fists at his sweat soaked hair, disgust filling him.

He remembers her reaching for her knife... his very thoughts freeze, horror filling him. Her sweet scent, her struggling form... He hadn't... taken her... had he?

His whole world spins, everything careening out of control. Things would be so much simpler if he could just remember what had occurred. All he can remember are fragments...snatches of sentences he said, and she said. Her struggling body. Her pitying gaze.

_ "Change, Claude,"_

_...you feel out of control because whenever you see me, you can't use your great big judicial intelligence around me..._

She had been so cool, so collected, save for the few moments her anger bellowed forth from her, as quick and unpredictable as a summer storm. She had seen the sniveling coward... and didn't bat an eye.

Or so he remembered. Perhaps it was wishful thinking that she would be so calm towards him, so pragmatic, yet never weak-willed in the face of his... nakedness.

Perhaps he had taken her roughly, in this very bed, and she had screamed in pain and revulsion.

It's with that thought that he retches, stomach heaving. He yanks himself from his bed and crashes into the washroom, falling to his knees in front of the chamber pot and emptying out the contents of his stomach.

His throat burns from his own sick as he slowly crawls back on his haunches, feeling very much like the animal they had beaten over and over in the dungeons only a few floors below. His upper lip curls in disgust, and he turns from the chamber pot, burying his head in his hands.

_I never meant for any of this to happen..._

He frowns. When had she said those words? Or did she even say them at all?

It must have been in a dream. For those words were followed by a brief touch, a gentle stroking of his hair... and why on earth would she do that?

_I never meant for any of this to happen..._

Such a softly voiced comment, from one so used to shrieking curses at him.

_I just wish you would actually change things instead of wallowing in pity..._

He blinks, his muscles still quivering from disgust at himself, at her for goading him.

Had she goaded him? He wasn't sure.

A vile taste lingers in his mouth, not just because of the sick he just vomited up. It's the taste of horror, of fear of his self.

_I just wish you would actually change things instead of wallowing in pity..._

She had pleaded for him to change. She had actually attempted to reason with a drunkard. Such a foolish endeavor.

Her comment sends a surge of self-loathing through his frame. Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. She called him someone who could change the very fabric of society, but as of now, he felt more like a weak, sick cur than an actual man.

A weak sick cur that might have taken her last night. A weak sick cur that couldn't even remember such an act.

He slowly rises to his feet, legs shaking beneath him. The headache pounds mercilessly, the painful pulse intensifying with each movement. As he shuffles into the room, his eyes survey the damage. Bottles lined the floor. Shattered glass glinted in the dim light. His bed was mussed and stained with his own sweat and tears.

His eyes flicker then to the mirror of the washroom. A fine dusting of silver hair adorns his chin. His hair falls lankly across his forehead, significantly longer than before. Whatever weight he was able to gain after his ordeal in the dungeons has been easily shed, leaving him as emaciated as before.

He looks all too similar to the monster that had emerged from the dungeons.

She had been so gentle, yet fierce with him, taking none of his insults lightly, yet never assaulting him verbally.

And yet he had slammed her into the bed beneath him, rage in his blood, lust heating his skin and loins.

He presses tight fingers to his pounding temples, feeling as if he's going to be sick again. Automatically, he paces over to an unopened bottle of wine, and quickly uncorks it, hoping to disappear into bitter sweetness coursing down his throat, hoping to just disappear.

But as he weighs the heavy bottle in his palm, a memory surges to the front of his skull.

_Esmeralda, yanking away the bottle, jaw set in defiance and determination... _

She... she had actually wrenched away his sweet poison...

Could it mean... she actually wanted him alive rather than dead?

He mentally slapped himself. No. Why would she be protective of her monster, her sniveling enemy that lusted for her flesh?

She had wanted him to change. A cynical, bitter laugh rasps from his scratchy throat. Such a foolish wench. So disillusioned and hopeful about her enemy.

An enemy that still believed to his bones that her people are heathens.

_Change Claude. _

He looks down at the bottle, the bottle that would let these thoughts of conflict vanish, would let the torment end.

But that would be proving her right. The coward. The coward who refuses to face his battles, the man who hides behind piety, and more recently, drink.

His hands clench around the smooth glass... then he slowly lowers it to the floor, where it lands with a small clink against the flagstones. His breath is agitated as his world spins around him, blurring into the background as he considers his next move.

The man of action is stifled, mired in his own inability to decide. He cannot simply languish in this room. Not when she's there, berating him after each drink.

But he's unwilling to depart his chambers and face the mountain that had grown in his absence. Bonhomme probably wrote to the venerable monarch miles away, weaving a scandalous tale of drink and madness.

His head still hurts, but he tries to ignore it as he considers the story of debauchery his chambers connote.

He needs to cleanse himself of the sin that's occurred. He needs to erase the awful sight, become pure again.

If he ever was pure to begin with.

He feels shame. He has to call the servants. The ones that he had ordered away in his madness. There's no other way to clean himself and his chambers without their assistance. And that singular fact causes him to grit his teeth in shame and frustration.

They would talk. They always did about their master, no matter how many times he threatened. He once had an efficient house. One he was in control of.

Now he struggled to control his own mind, let alone his home.

He looks at his state of undress in the mirror, and throws on his dressing gown, quickly hiding himself in the simple elegance. Truthfully it only made his image worse. The ragged, skeletal madman, poorly attempting to disguise himself as noble.

He runs a tense hand through his hair, attempting to smooth it. His breath reeks of spirits, something that will not go unnoticed by the staff. He eyes the bottles, debating whether he should dispose of them himself.

Frollo strides over to the mess of bottles and gathers them in his arms. He'll hide them in the small cupboard. Then, he'll dispose of them properly (and discreetly) when he's made himself more presentable.

With quick, yet uncharacteristically clumsy movements, he strips the bed of its dirtied sheets, piling them in the corner. He's all too aware his actions befit a maid, that his own father would berate him for such actions below his status.

But then again, he had been acting as a drunken peasant. Would performing the work of one be truly beneath him?

He moves to the door, hand hovering over the handle. He sighs, bracing himself for their judgment, while dread still gnaws him to his core. Esmeralda is there, at the back of his mind, the uncertainty of his actions the night before stretching before him like an unknown volatile sea.

An ocean that may drown him in its aftermath, and may have battered her body among its waves.

He lets out a small, choked sound, a groan mixed with a sigh of pain, and opens the door.

xxx

"Up and at 'em, little miss! You have much to do!'

Esmeralda's eyelids crack open, to see Clopin shaking her shoulder. She groans, burying her face into her pillow. "Go away Clopin," she mutters into the coarse fabric, voice muffled by straw. The shaking does not cease, only intensifies. "It's nearly eleven o'clock! It's not my fault you were out doing God knows what," Clopin says pointedly.

Esmeralda's stomach swoops as she remembers just what occurred last night. She turns around, masking her troubled mind with a half-serious glare directed at the jester that proceeded to light all the lamps in her section of the tent. Although there's a crooked smile on his face, she sees barely veiled suspicion in his eyes. She huffs out an aggravated sigh, and rolls off of her mat, only to reveal her clothes from the day before still on her frame. "Busy night?" Clopin asks, folding his arms. It's then she sees the parental rather than brotherly side of him, as he scrutinizes her rumpled day clothes.

"Don't ask," she says pointedly, shooting him a warning glance. Clopin frowns, and turns away, shaking his head. Esmeralda tries to ignore the gnawing feeling of guilt as she drags her weary self out of bed and attempts to put herself together. _It's better he doesn't know_ she rationalizes.

She's exhausted, a state of affairs only improved marginally by cold water splashed against her face. As she buries her face in her washrag, memories of the previous night surge through her mind. She feels like such a complicated mess when really it should be simple- he's the enemy.

Except, as she said before, "emotions aren't simple." God, weren't those words feeling ironic now when all she wants was for it to be simple?

She sighs, angrily balling up the washcloth and throwing it across the basin. Still rubbing at her tired eyes, she leaves her tent, trying to run through her daily routine of chores. But memories of his face, his words, the softness of his hair assail her mind, leaving her a little more unnerved than usual.

"Rosa, could you just wash the damn pots for once?" Esmeralda snaps, after a long afternoon of washing, cooking, and general aggravation.

"Someone woke up on the wrong side of bed this morning," Rosa responds, the younger girl glaring at her pointedly. Esmeralda, taken aback by her comment, sighs and rubs at her face. "Are you all right, you've seemed off all day?" Rosa asks, glare evaporating as concern replaces it.

Esmeralda automatically nods her head. "I'm fine, all right? Just busy," she replies.

Rosa huffs, folding her arms. "No need to be snappy, I was just trying to help!" she retorts. Esmeralda stifles a groan, and moves away from the gossiping group of women to deposit her cleaned pots somewhere else. Her nerves had been sufficiently frayed this entire day. Esmeralda frowns. Maybe it was time to get out of the Court a little while, maybe visit Quasimodo. Get her mind off of last night.

His pained face appears behind her closed lids, and she feels a surge of unwanted pity towards him. No one's every accused her of being too kind, in fact, Quasimodo was the only one to say she was good, seeing as she was the only one to treat him like a human.

So why is it that she of all people feels a wave of pity towards a man who is so merciless?

As she trudges to Notre Dame, she ponders over her feelings. Maybe it was because for once he had showed her a part of himself no one would ever see-a vulnerable, naked part. _He was drunk it doesn't count_, she counters.

She slips through the busy marketplace on Rue Monge, ducking and weaving through pushcarts and customers haggling over the price of fish, wool, and spices. She barely hears their shrieking affronts and insults to each other, too trapped in the realm of her own head. _He's never kissed a girl, let alone had a lover,_ she notes, the thought striking her out of virtually nowhere. She frowns to herself, troubled that of all thoughts, this particular one would occur to her.

Was it entirely unexpected? A man like that could never woo a woman. He'd probably intimidate and insult her too much. Esmeralda snorts at the thought of Frollo being romantic, buying flowers for some "noble woman", some shy, delicate God fearing lady more occupied with needlework than anything else.

Her smile fades as less amusing details of the previous night flood her mind, the most baffling being his final apology. _He had no idea what he was saying, don't pin your hopes to that failure in the making,_ she reminds herself, but she can't help but wish that it was in fact genuine.

Liquor loosened the tongue. But it didn't create... falsehoods. After years of watching Clopin stumble out of taverns, she feels pretty sure of that fact. People were more suggestible with drink... but had she really been that convincing?

Why was she even dwelling on this? It wasn't as if she would try to cross paths with him again.

Shaking her head, she takes the steps of Notre Dame two at a time, launching herself to the heavy wooden doors. She pushes her way inside unaware that someone is watching her.

Xxx

Every cell of his body urges him to forget this endeavor.

But the small voice at the back of his mind still nags at him constantly, keeping him awake each night. The voice whispering that he must know. That he must confront her about the events of last night, no matter the cost.

She is a gypsy. Her words used to mean nothing compared to his. However, if she spreads rumors about the minister preying on her once more, and it spread up to more savory society... he shudders as he thinks of the consequences.

And so, he had ignored the massive headache grinding away at his sanity inch by inch, and emerged from the Palace, robes pristine, hat balanced carefully upon his head. Frollo passes off this trip as an avoidance of the inevitable, of Bonhomme, for if the servants shifty glances and unease are to be believed, he has managed to squander away any nobility he had hoped to attain. In translation, Bonhomme would be knocking on his door with a summons from the King quite soon.

He had slipped away from mounting responsibility, like a teenaged squire avoiding his duty. He scowls in response to this musing, loathing the way he manages to debase himself further with each action so far.

They were whispering about him; he was sure of it. As he rode through the streets, still attempting to find a purpose to his wandering, he could hear the silence, then the resulting hushed tittering around him. He can feel their eyes in his back, their curious, prying eyes that are hungry for his demise.

His wandering brings him to Notre Dame. And he remembers with sudden clarity despite his pounding temples that she visits the hunchback often. Of all places to find her, to speak with her in relative privacy... this is the only feasible option.

He sits upon his horse, absolutely mute, feeling more like a fool than anything else. After waiting for what seems like an eternity, he decides to move away, forget the whole affair... only for fate to bring her at Notre Dame's doorstep once again.

His heart races as she tears up the stairs, hood strapped over her head. He only knows it's her because of the momentary flash of her face, of her purple skirt beneath the anonymous cloak. His hands tighten into fists on the reigns as his breath shortens.

When she disappears into Notre Dame, he dismounts the horse and quickly glides in behind her, the eyes of the cathedral judging his every step. His skin prickles beneath their stony glares, and he momentarily wonders if this is how the accused in his courtroom feel under his own gaze.

Scowling at his weakness, he slips into Notre Dame, and subtly walks over to the staircase leading to the hunchback's loft. There is only one feasible exit to the front door...so all he needs to do is wait, like some spider for its fly.

He waits.

He paces, his mind still focusing on the damnable memory of her beneath him. Her soft warm body wriggling... no, not wriggling in delight or pleasure, fighting, he corrected, wincing.

Even now, he so wanted to believe she had just... given herself to him. Lay on his bed, those beautiful limbs spread, arching her back and letting him kiss her, touch her...He runs a tense hand through his now-clipped hair, his skin suddenly burning white-hot.

She must have been afraid.

Finally, he hears small, light footsteps from up above. He backs away from the foot of the stairs, his head upturned expectantly at the figure that now descends the stairs.

A small grin touches her lips, and her eyes are bright with a happiness he hasn't seen in them before. For a moment, his heart leaps in his chest as his eyes consume her beautiful, vibrant smile, her rosy cheeks, and the ebony, thick tendrils of hair fluttering behind her.

He feels privileged to witness such a rare moment. For he knows that when he enters her sight, that smile will vanish. And hatred will replace the tender fire in those eyes. So he steals this small sight, greedily wanting more. And yet terrified to admit that seeing her smile affects him more than he cares to admit.

Finally, she turns the corner of the spiral staircase and her eyes fall upon him.

For a moment, she stops, debating inwardly whether or not to dash up the stairs. Why, for the love of God, is he here of all places? Instantly, she's suspicious.

"Did you come here to punish Quasimodo as well as Phoebus?" she calls out to him harshly, unable to disguise her own agitation. The memory of him, pleading in his own bed for her company, flashes behind her closed eyelids, and she feels her cheeks flush red.

She seems quite flustered; Frollo's gaze briefly flickers over her flushed cheeks, her anxious demeanor, trying to ascertain just what occurred only a day before. When she looks at him pointedly in the eye, he himself feels scrutinized, and averts his gaze, addressing an unknown point above her head.

"I have no business with the hunchback, gypsy. My affairs lie with you this fine afternoon," he clips, ignoring the way his stomach twists and turns in his abdomen.

Esmeralda's heart leaps in panic. He can't possibly remember can he? He had drunk enough to completely incapacitate a horse, let alone a man.

His eyes do not focus on her, she notices. That stony face also does not betray much of what occurs in his mind. Esmeralda's hand twitches to her dagger, hidden beneath her skirt.

She instead decides to play it cool. "And why on earth would you have anything to discuss with me? Don't tell me you actually give a damn about the Romani people," she says wryly, descending the stairs with as much devil-may care swagger that she can muster, swinging her hips and setting her jaw.

Frollo swallows, his mouth suddenly dry as she strides so flirtatiously, yet fiercely before him. The mental image of a tigress, beautiful yet ferocious, springs up in his mind.

"You know quite well what I am to discuss with you," he lashes out, too rattled and addled to even correct her foul language.

Her heart thunders in her chest, and she has to steady herself to keep from sweating. "Care to enlighten me?" she taunts, aware she's in a dangerous position, but unwilling to relinquish her hand. _Keep your cards close_, Clopin had told her once.

The minister, however, seemed more agitated by the response. "Don't play games, witch!" he snaps, teeth exposed in a fearsome grimace.

_He's only a man. No monster_, she reminds herself as her limbs begin to tremble. She decides to remain silent, giving only a pointed glare.

His jaw twitches, teeth grinding together. He leans forward, towering above the small dancer, nostrils flaring as her sweet scent wafts into his nostrils. "Last night, I received a most interesting visitor in my chambers. An unexpected, gypsy visitor," he hisses, his breath washing over her face.

She folds her arms, closing herself off to him, while tilting her head in query.

There is no response, and the silence unnerves him, the unknown gaping before him like the maw of a cave. Frollo resists the urge to lurch forward and simply throttle the woman.

"Care to explain why you were in my chambers?" he says lowly, his voice sharp.

Her fingers thrum against her arm while a nervous pulse beating within her. She grips at her own forearms, trying to find he bearings. "I was... curious," she starts, praying to God her expression is one of stoic strength.

"Curious? Perhaps you've confused inquisition with malicious intent." He threatens, a cruel smile touching his lips.

"Believe me, you were in such a drunken state, if I wanted to, I could slit your throat," she fires back, fists clenched.

"Really? Or did you attempt to and ran into... conflict," he drawls, anxiety still twisting his insides as his calculating gaze scans over her face.

"Conflict? What conflict?" she says, blinking in confusion.

Her expression is ambiguous in nature. Frollo's eyes never leave her face, attempting to parse out what happened. Esmeralda's own gaze takes in his anxious, shifty nature, his absolute scrutiny of her, which makes her skin crawl.

"You know... what I speak of," he mutters, suddenly panicking. Memories of the night before swim in his mind. He feels physically sick as he considers the reprehensible actions of the night before.

Esmeralda then realizes something is vaguely wrong with him. His face is unnaturally pale, corpse-like in fact. His fingers are clenched into shaking fists that he attempts to hide from her. Her gaze slides to his own eyes that shift from hers in anxiety. "Frollo? What are you talking about?" she asks lowly and suspiciously, her brows lowered and her mouth in a frown.

His last shred of self-control easily snaps, and all he can do is accuse as fear clutches his chest. "You have all the evidence you need to destroy me. Why do you play games when before you were so intent on my absolute annihilation?!" he snarls, driving forward and reaching for her with shaking hands.

But when her arms rise in defense, he abruptly realizes where they are, what the stakes are for him and her. He yanks his hands back, and backs away, shoulders stiff, each step away from her heavy.

Esmeralda's coal-black eyebrows twitch up across her forehead as utter bafflement floods her. She quickly reviews his comments, his pale, quivering face, and his accusations. He looks like he's about to be sick, for Christ's sake.

"I don't play games Frollo. And I don't intend to blackmail you for getting drunk, how on Earth would that possibly work?" she says, testing the waters.

Frollo blinks, visibly taken aback by the comment. In his obsidian pupils, Esmeralda sees an epiphany dawn within them, causing the agitated snarl upon his lips to slowly relax. Frollo's whole frame collapses, as he realizes that if what he thought had occurred had truly occurred... she would indeed make it known.

Esmeralda remembers his comments. And she realizes just what he was so agitated about, and her eyes widen.

"You... didn't think that we... that you..." she starts, her face draining of blood.

He takes in a shuddering breath, stress still evident in his features. So she decides to put the matter to bed.

"I came into your room. You were drunk. We spoke. You tried to force yourself on me-" Instantly his mind is blank with terror, but the end of her sentence fortunately dispels that fear, "-but you stopped. We spoke again, and you fell asleep," she finishes with a finality that indicates him of her honesty.

A sigh puffs past his lips as his racing heart at last calms. He runs a hand over his sweaty brow, cringing at how disheveled he appears before her. He attempts to subtly adjust his posture and slip back into the stone-faced role he used to be so adept at. But the mask has slipped off, and Esmeralda now sees the absolute turmoil he has been driven mad by.

It's not lost on her how his entire body completely collapsed at the admission of his innocence. Her lower lips catches on her teeth as her eyes scan over him. He sees her glance and instantly clasps his hands behind his back, attempting to be solid. There's an implicit dismissal to his body language that she cannot accept.

"You thought you had raped me," she finally says bluntly, and his whole body quivers at the very word.

"I thought... something regrettable had occurred," he says, uncomfortable at her direct manner. His fingernails dig into his palms as he waits for her verbal onslaught. He debates whether a retreat is necessary, but his pride balks at such a prospect as running from her.

Her eyes burn wholes in his body, the intensity of that gaze shocking and absolutely breath-taking. He can see her queries churning behind that gaze, her mind debating with itself whether to speak.

Esmeralda squares her jaw, and says, "Why did you find me?"

He doesn't respond right away, the lines and angles of his face sharp and rigid, resembling stone. She steps forward boldly, to see his body twitch in agitation.

"Why find me, if you were so sure that you had done that?" Esmeralda challenges, thoughts churning behind a lowered brow and a set jaw.

"I was not sure, that was entirely the reason," Frollo retorts, his words percussive in quality, the harsh, defensive strikes of an animal backed into a corner.

"But why even bring it up? Why not just let it go away? Honestly, if it _had _happened, whom would I tell? My family? They're oppressed already. Phoebus? You've made sure he's absolutely useless. And no noble would actually believe me," she reminds him.

"One cannot be sure of that. You can be most... vocal when you will it," Frollo tactfully replies.

Still perplexed by the whole situation, Esmeralda asks pointedly, "Were you here to pay me off? Bribe me, slip me money like I'm some street whore?"

"I would do no such thing!" he hisses, balking at _that_ absolutely disgusting prospect.

"Then why come here? Minister, I was pretty sure that you would want to forget that night entirely. Why come here, and bring it up again?" she exclaims, her gaze burning.

"I didn't... want to cause anymore issue with you," he rationalizes.

"Me specifically?" she comments, one of her eyebrows arching high on her forehead.

_Blast,_ he thinks. He's quickly losing his solid footing, his mask slipping off. He can deny it, but it would still appear suspicious. She's too clever, too nosy to accept a simple denial or deflection.

"Perhaps," he hesitates.

Esmeralda shakes her head, irritated by his close-lipped manner, the ambiguous answers. She can feel a change within him, a realization that could explain this whole affair.

And he still remains silent, too cowardly to even try.

"Perhaps?" she questions tilting her head to give him a perceptive, querulous look. He inhales deeply, the headache still pounding at his temples. Rubbing at his eyes, he tries to formulate an answer... one that does not have to do with the sounds of her screams echoing in his ears, the fear filling those eyes... one that does not have to do with the sick feeling in his stomach when she shut herself down before him that night so long ago in the cell.

Esmeralda jumps on his hesitance with a ferocity that defines her character. "Perhaps isn't an answer Minister. I want an answer as to why you're here. I believe I am owed that, especially by you," she lashes fiercely.

"Owed? I owe you nothing," he automatically counters.

"Really? Nothing? I think you know quite well what I am owed," she replies huskily, voice low and dangerous. And despite his multiple denials, he knows he is quickly losing credibility.

Not to be intimidated by a small dancing gypsy, he straightens before her, his pose militant as he stares unflinchingly at her emerald gaze. For a moment, the tension rises between them, thick in the air they breathe and cohabitate.

She won't accept anything less than the truth. So he decides to give her a somewhat honest answer.

"I... felt at fault," he replies, the singular statement suddenly making things all too clear within his own addled mind.

She gives him such a look of bafflement, he immediately regrets remaining within the sanctuary. "Christ, I think that's the first sentence I've heard you say while sober beginning with 'I felt'," she teases, her mind still puzzling over his words. At fault? It was one matter for him to admit fault while devastatingly drunk. It was an entirely other matter sober.

Did he... actually feel remorse for what happened? Her heart raced, but she quickly shook herself out of that mindset. No. This was Claude Frollo. He couldn't change that... dramatically. Could he?

"My personal life is of no one's concern. I am a public official, and should not be subject to such expectations," he replies sharply.

"All right then. But maybe when it comes to me... things are a little more... personal," she emphasizes pointedly, nodding her head.

He scowls, the corners of his lips pulled down in an all too familiar frown.

"You know I'm right," she replies stubbornly.

"A little presumptuous on your part, don't you think?" he clips.

"Maybe. But then again, who was the one assuming I was a witch? Isn't that a bit presumptuous?" Esmeralda replies sharply.

"You're quite persistent in your denials. One might think you're hiding something," Frollo says, a small smirk appearing on his thin lips.

"And you're quite persistent in avoiding the issue instead of talking about it," she replies without hesitation. The smirk instantly vanishes. "Frollo, I just want a specific answer. And quite frankly, I'm not letting you leave here without one," she says, crossing in front of him and blocking the exit to the sanctuary.

"You dare?" he drawls, eyes piercing her. She only nods and folds her arms, a challenging glint in her eyes.

He strides towards her, invading her personal space. This would be the part when she would usually step away. Instead, the green-eyed vixen holds her ground, and he secretly admires her gall. His entire form hums with a sweet anticipation as he steps closer, the risk of losing control increasing, as well as his own thrills.

Her heart races, but she remains unmoved, knowing his proximity to be a tactic of the great politician of Paris. And also knowing that a quick shriek would bring the archdeacon running.

"Go on, Frollo. Let me hear it," she says cockily, and her cheeky nature both arouses and irritates him. Oh, he wants so much, her proximity to his burning body does such wicked things to his mind... he wonders how she would beneath him...

He's then starkly reminded of the night before, her struggles beneath his body. And his heated thoughts are doused by cold reality. Startled, he jerks his head back, stomach twisting in knots. She sees the momentary panic flash across his severe features, and realizes that until today, and until that previous night, she had never witnessed _fear_ upon his face. Vulnerability. It was something so rare, she can't help but draw closer, only to see desire flare up in his eyes once more.

Sighing, she slumps back once again, growing increasingly tired of the push and pull between them. Especially with regards to something she feels can change things.

He remains silent. He visually gorges himself on her beautiful face, the determined set in her jaw, the full lips turned down in an appealing pout. Oh God. If only he could shove her away, deny her sweet poison. But the addiction, the thrill of being in her present races through his frame while it simultaneously makes his skin crawl in repulsion at his lack of control.

Why be vulnerable towards her? It would be all too easy to shove her aside, brush her off like a stray patch of dirt on his robes.

And yet... it seems as if no matter how hard he wished to avoid her, fate, and his own desire brought her before him. He had attempted to remain distant. So had she. And yet, she had been thrust before him while rescuing her brethren.

Pushing her away now seems useless. He's so tired so very tired of trying. His soul hangs in the balance, but even he, the pious, venerable Frollo, has no inkling as to the difference between sin and virtue now.

There is no right decision. Only blind grabs in the dark for an anchor, something... or someone... to cling to.

"I came because I needed to see the damage. It's most disconcerting to wake with scattered memories of a night that might have been illicit in nature. After speaking with you...part of me was... horrified."

He steps forward, and she nearly gasps at how close, how intimidating he can be. "You have killed me many times. With one dance, you sent me toppling from my station. With one dance, I was bound to you, and with one dance, I was sent into personal as well as public turmoil," he hisses, the words not so much an attack at her, as much as the shame of a man in conflict with himself. She blinks in mystification, at the absolute savagery he displays towards his own person, a person he once thought blameless.

"When I woke up this morning with memories of a night where you were..." he stops himself, unable to form the vile words. Unable to damn himself further.

He maintains his composure. "...I feared... that I had damned myself once more... that I had lost my control that I have longed to regain... I feared I had... hurt you," he says in a voice barely above a whisper. His whole body balks at telling her. He feels too vulnerable, and he does not wish to wait for her tongue-lashing. So he decides to strike first.

"Your circumstances, your birth, you skin, they disgust me. I am disgusted with myself for wanting you so. But my own self-loathing has to do also with your pain, your fear of me... I... I see you scream for mercy and feel sick to my stomach," he admits, and his head tilts downward as he averts his gaze, that piercing gaze from her own.

Esmeralda's mouth goes dry as a figurative storm of emotion brews within her. Anger, confusion... anticipation and hope all swirl within her as the world she thought she knew spins off its axis, sending her careening.

His lowered gaze, those intense eyes now burning a hole in the flagstones, his deeply etched wrinkles... they tug on something within her, and her heart races at the prospect of this unknown man who now stands before her.

But she cannot forget his bitter, angry words. This is no changed man. Not by a long shot. He is bitter, angry, at war with everyone and himself. As curious as she is about him... he's dangerous.

She shakes her head, throwing on her hood and latching her cloak. "What am I supposed to say in response to that, Frollo? You insult me, and then you say you don't want me to be in pain? Until you say something that doesn't make me want to slap you, we don't have any business together. I appreciate the sentiment that you... care of my wellbeing. But for now, good day and goodbye," she says, the very words feeling odd in her mouth.

Esmeralda turns quickly walking from him. Something gnaws at her gut, something that turns her head to see that he is watching her retreating form so intently, his gaze hot and piercing. Her face flushes hot, and she removes herself immediately, feeling strangely hollow.

Frollo feels the magnetic pull of her affect him... he wants to follow, he wants to hold, he wants to keep her...

But through sheer willpower, he roots himself to the stone floors of Notre Dame, knowing how many people would be present to watch him, knowing that he would be known as a predator of gypsy women if he simply follows her.

Knowing that she would hiss at him, claw at him and strike him if he dared to come within her presence.

Of course he berated her for her birth. Why should he not, when everything in his childhood taught him her race was made up of heathen harpies preying on weak willed men?

It seemed appropriate to distance his self from her. And yet... now he is discontent, uncomfortable, unsatisfied. Frustration fills him to the brim, and his frayed nerves seem to split even more.

Approaching footsteps from the hunchback's keep shock the minister back to his self, and he quickly strides away, unwilling to face the boy while his mind berates him at every turn. He fluidly exits the cathedral, attempting to forget, while his stubborn heart refuses to slow its agitated beat.

xxx

Thanks for reading! As pointed out by a reviewer, i have a few grammatical errors I've got to correct! I promise I'll get to them, and thank you to that reviewer for pointing it out! -Cgal


	11. Chapter 10

She wanders outside of Notre Dame, blinking as the cool light of the grey, overcast day blinds her after the muted dimness of the cathedral. Esmeralda adjusts her cloak, pursing her lips as more questions assail her mind, more incessant than before.

So the man did... feel something other than lust towards her. That part was evident. But what to do with said knowledge is so muddled, so unclear, she feels as if she's blind, stumbling in the dark towards his outstretched figure. Will he welcome her with an embrace, or with iron-like clutches?

She moves in a trance like state, too self-involved to consider dancing her distractions away. She should be back in the Court, finishing chores, but she can't shake herself from her introspective stupor, can't seem to find that peace of mind she's been searching this entire day for.

He had insulted her... and yet in the same breath, expressed something that sounded a lot like concern for her. He seemed genuine, how could he not, when his hands quivered, his eyes burned and his face was as pale as the belly of a fish?

She trudges past taverns, slips through crowds of people, and walks past the patrolling soldiers that leer at her every move. She doesn't acknowledge them; how can she, when he is there, staring at her with those conflicted eyes, those eyes that chip away into his soul that brews underneath like some wild summer thunderstorm?

Esmeralda finally glances up, to see that her wayward path has brought her to the ex-Captain Phoebus's manor. Guilt slices through her heart. She had heard, through gossiping old women and a chatty Clopin, that he had been abruptly demoted and dismissed. No one said why, but Esmeralda has no doubt it was because of her.

Her hands loop around the small gate that section off his property. She presses against the cold metal, her eyes peering at the house beneath furrowed brows. There's a bursting need to talk to him, to have his simple, direct manner knock some much needed sense in her.

But there's also the invisible reminder that she has caused him so much trouble, it would be best to leave now.

As she turns, she hears the front door open, and quick, small footsteps clicking in rapid succession. "Mademoiselle Esmeralda."

Esmeralda freezes at the high-pitched, feminine voice. She turns, to see Lady Fleur standing before her, looking every bit like the lady of the manor as she was bred to be. Of all the people to meet at the moment, this would be the worst. "Good day Madame... I was just on my way," she says quickly, about to turn on her heel and move away.

But the Lady steps forward. "Would you like to come inside? I believe we have some matters to discuss," she says, and behind those crystalline blue eyes, Esmeralda sees a shrewdness she never expected to find there. Esmeralda slowly turns and follows her into the manor, skin prickling as unease floods her.

A servant intercepts her, bowing his head. "May I take your cloak Mademoiselle?" he clips, but his politeness is only skin-deep as his eyes scan over her disapprovingly.

For once, she's rather unsure of herself, and looks to the blonde haired woman removing her customary veil. Fleur nods, and Esmeralda slowly unlatches her cloak, a ragged dishrag compared to the elaborate robe Fleur hands to the man, and steps back as the servant brushes past her with a sniff and _hmmph. _

"I do apologize for my manservant. He can be most brusque and impolite when it comes to outsiders," Fleur notes dismissively, stepping back so that Esmeralda walks beside her as the noblewoman leads her through the tapestry lined halls.

"I figured," Esmeralda replies, scrutinizing the woman whose head is held high in the air beside her. Her bare feet are quiet the thick carpet that cushions the floors, and she relishes the softness that squishes between her toes.

Fleur is absolutely silent, and leads her into a nearby sitting room, directing her to an over-plush chair. "Nice house," Esmeralda notes wryly, crossing her ankles and sitting.

Fleur slowly eases down into her own chair, skirts ballooning around her. "It's an old place. My mother said it was passed down through my family," Fleur says, somewhat awkwardly.

Esmeralda can sense the young woman's growing discomfort, so she decides to speak. "I'm sorry," Esmeralda blurts out. Fleur's alarmed blue gaze snaps to hers.

"I'm sorry about Phoebus's dismissal. I didn't want anyone, let alone his family to get hurt," Esmeralda says in a rushed exhale.

Fleur primly folds her hands in her lap, frowning. "I didn't know the news was made so public," she says.

Esmeralda shrugs. "People like to talk, that's all. It wasn't really made public," she says.

Fleur sighs, humming in disapproval. "I suppose that's to be expected. And here I was, attempting to make the first move and confront you about it," she says, laughing softly.

Esmeralda bites her lip while shifting in the cushioned seat. "I didn't know he was dismissed... I assumed, with the timing it was about me," she says.

"You're quite clever for a gypsy," Fleur comments, and Esmeralda attempts to not roll her eyes at the backhanded compliment.

"That's me, too clever for my own good," Esmeralda says bitingly, startling the young woman.

Fleur purses her pink lips, and Esmeralda can see an inward debate taking fruition behind her eyes.

"I suppose it was rather silly of me to summon you here...I suppose... I was afraid you had convinced my husband to conflict with the Minister, leading to his dismissal," Fleur says quietly.

"No! I did no such thing! I didn't even know about it until a few weeks ago, for Christ's sake," Esmeralda says with a humorless laugh.

Fleur blinks in reaction, slightly scandalized by her wording. "Forgive my suspicions, but... you two seemed quite... close," she struggles to remain diplomatic.

So there it was. Esmeralda leans back in her chair, shaking her head. "Fleur, I broke it off with him. But it was a very mutual parting, let me assure you. We just didn't fit," she says.

"Oh," is all Fleur can say in response.

"Is that really why I'm here? You were nervous that I was... trying to snatch him up?" Esmeralda says, frowning.

It's Fleur's turn to be uneasy, and Esmeralda watches her smooth the front of her dress to disguise her anxiety.

Esmeralda sighs, a headache bubbling at her temples. First Frollo, then this? She gets up from her seat and walks away, running her hand through her tangled hair. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. Truly I am," Fleur comments, and Esmeralda looks back to see her standing there demurely, blue eyes sincere. Esmeralda exhales, releasing the tension in her muscles, as she realizes hat for all her finery, Phoebus's wife is a simple woman, and feels the same emotions as everyone else. "No, don't worry. It's not just you. I've had a rather long and _interesting_ couple of days," Esmeralda says, laughing under her breath.

Sympathy now glints in those eyes, and she motions to Esmeralda's empty chair. "Would you like to talk about it? I'm a rather good listener, and I'd like to make up for my earlier callousness," Fleur comments kindly.

Esmeralda places her hands on her hips and huffs out an amused laugh. "I would have no idea where to start," she says truthfully.

"The beginning?" she says.

Esmeralda sinks down in the chair, fingers circling the wood grain beneath her fingertips. "Do you believe... people can change? Like honest to God, change for good?" Esmeralda suddenly asks.

Fleur's light eyebrows knit together. "I suppose... it depends on the situation... is it a man?" Fleur asks, eyes glinting with excitement.

"Yes," Esmeralda responds, and an amused expression appears on the young woman's face. Esmeralda rolls her eyes. "Don't waggle your eyebrows at me. He's about as romantic as dirt, and I'd rather court a statue than him," Esmeralda says wryly.

"Oh, I was not implying anything," Fleur counters, and Esmeralda shakes her head, grinning.

"Right. And I'm the queen of France," she replies.

"So this man. He is... close to you?"

"Hardly." She hesitates, wondering if she should come clean.

Fleur notices her hesitation. "I suppose... you don't have to tell me if you don't want to," she says softly, and for that, Esmeralda gives her a relieved look.

"Let's just say, he and have been at each other's throats from the start," she says wryly, a small fire of ire flaring up within her heart.

"And then?" Fleur gestures smoothly.

Esmeralda falls silent, lips pursed as so many words bubble up in her throat, each of them more incriminating than the last. "He's... always hated me... but... recently... he said that... he cares about me. Well, my wellbeing I suppose. He doesn't want me hurt. But all times we crossed paths before... say just the opposite."

"He hurt you?" Fleur says as her eyebrows knit in worry.

"Yes. And yet... he keeps... doing things that just don't add up... like he's... sorry about it."

"Maybe he feels guilty."

Esmeralda usually would guffaw at this statement. Frollo, guilty. Frollo with a conscience.

Except she remains quiet, mulling over her words. "But can... someone change that fast? It just doesn't seem believable."

"Miracles of the heart rarely are," the noblewoman replies, and Esmeralda catches the way her delicate fingers wrap around the silver cross hanging from her neck.

Esmeralda has to snort at this. But she catches Fleur's hurt look, and instantly feels ashamed. "Sorry."

Fleur simply shakes her head. "Perhaps you are not as... inclined to the Lord's workings as I. But... you live in a Court of Miracles no? Surely you believe in things that can't be explained logically."

"To be frank Fleur, it's been a while since a decent miracle came my way."

"Even so... I don't know what this man did, or whom he is... but if he seems to be changing for better... why not indulge the change? Encourage it?" Fleur says brightly.

Esmeralda frowns, crossing her arms over her chest. "Because if I get close to him again... he'll be able to hurt me," she says practically. Meanwhile, her mind mulls over the well-meaning statement. And she wonders if perhaps there is any truth to her words for a man that once shocked her with his cruelty... and then, shocks her still with his unexpected repentance.

xxx

Frollo rides back to the Palace of Justice, thoughts churning violently in his mind.

Finding her was supposed to straighten things out. But now, the situation seemed exceedingly complicated. He feared the vulnerability, the nakedness he had shown to her.

He feared the way he couldn't seem to detach himself from her.

He pulls at the reigns, guiding the huge beast into its stable. But the comfort that usually floods him as he enters the sanctuary never comes. She has taken even that from him.

He dismounts from the horse, taking one hand and pinching the bridge of his nose. He's still experiencing pounding headaches, a possible punishment for his sins of debauchery.

_It won't be punishment enough,_ he realizes. Not for the court, not for the monarch that probably has sent out a decree for his exile. His lip curls in disgust at the thought of going back there, that terrible, terrible place. The scars on his back burn at the thought.

Fear clutches his heart, twisting his insides until he feels physically ill once again. No. He can't go back there. Anything but that.

His eyes suddenly fall upon a sharp blade, used for cutting leather. _Anything but that..._ he remembers darkly.

He swallows past the growing lump in his throat and quickly turns away from the blade. No. He could not solve his issue with more sins. Raising the blade to his self would damn him more.

_But aren't you past the point of absolution?_ He realizes. What was one more mortal sin to do to him anyway?

_Hell on earth, or Hell? _

Belief stated mortal punishment could not match the horrors of hell. And yet he can so vividly remember the torment of the lashes, the humiliation, but not imagine the Hell. What could possibly be worse than what he's endured?

He grits his teeth as he marches out of the stable. Blasphemy. He committed blasphemy each time he doubted.

How many sins had he committed? Lust, pride, wrath... the list was stretching long. And each time he encountered the gypsy, the supposed cause of all this... he found himself simultaneously hating her very existence... and needing to see her. Needing her to speak to him.

Everything is slipping from his grasp...and the worst is yet to come. He looks up to see Bonhomme waiting for him at the entrance of the Palace of Justice, along with an unknown man dressed in colors of the crown. A representative the monarch, perhaps.

He attempts not to let his fear etch onto his features. But as he turns his face to a mask of stone, he can't help but pray to the God he has probably been damned by. _Our father, who art in heaven, the Lord is with thee..._

His steps are heavy, and bring him closer to the sources of his impending fall. _Hallowed be thy name._

_Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven._

"Minister Frollo? Would you come this way please?" Bonhomme says, his face unreadable. The minister gives him a curt nod, and walks with them down the corridor, brow furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line.

_Hail Mary full of Grace, the Lord is with thee..._

Her face flashes before his eyes. And regret fills him. _I'm sorry._

Finally, they reach his office. He stands before the desk, his desk, trying not to feel absolutely terrified.

"Minister," Bonhomme says, his eyes glinting with guilt.

"Bonhomme," Frollo hears himself croak.

Bonhomme waits for some sort of defense. But he receives none.

"For the past few weeks, I've noticed that... that you were not at your post," he begins hesitantly.

_Spit it out man, just damn me and get on with it, _Frollo thinks venomously, yet he still keeps his facial features motionless and calm.

"I found it... necessary, to call the royal authorities... you remember that part of the... conditions of your pardon were that you remain loyal and steadfast to the king and do your job to the best of your ability?" Bonhomme remarks in a nervous exhale.

Frollo gives another short nod in response, unable to trust his own voice.

"Right then..." Bonhomme murmurs, wringing his hands. Then, he remembers the other man in the room. "Oh! Forgive me. This is Sir Antoine Beauchene, personal attendant to the king," he stammers.

The attendant then chooses to intercede on behalf of the flustered Bonhomme. "King Louis XI found it wise to send another representative of the crown to discuss your case. The Court has been... most perplexed by your lapses behavior. I daresay, it was quite fortunate for Bonhomme to write of your... recent infirmities..."

_Infirmities?_ Frollo had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing at the outright absurdity of it all. Infirmity... infirmity of his mind perhaps... to leave him so vulnerable to drink, to madness...

But he remains silent, reminded of his times as a young man training for his post. _Keep quiet, speak only when spoken to._

"... You will be punished, Minister. The King has seen it fit that each day you will receive twenty lashes from the cat. You are also required to be examined each week by another attendant to the king who will be much more... critical than Bonhomme has proved to be thus far," Beauchene noted, narrowing his eyes at the pink-faced man gripping at robes and fiddling with his quill.

The leash tightens. But it was... surprisingly mild given the past few weeks. Frollo attempts to be stoic, even as relief floods him. Lashes. Humiliating. A constant reminder of his errors, but at least it was not a return to the darkness. At least he wouldn't be locked away in the place he sentenced his own criminals.

"Are we clear, Minister? And are we clear that the slightest violation will lead to your immediate dismissal?"

_Then why haven't you done it already?_ Frollo muses, wondering if the monarch has grown soft.

"Clear. I am Paris's humble servant," Frollo carefully intones, hiding the relief that threatens to blossom across his features.

"Good. I will not be of anymore burden to you. Gentlemen," the attendant says, turning and striding quickly out the door.

For a moment, the two men are silent, each eyeing the other with wariness.

Then, Frollo breaks the tableau, turning to sit at his desk. "Now then. We haven't all day," he says dryly, attempting normalcy.

"You... sire, do you know how lucky you are?" Bonhomme suddenly exclaims in disbelief. Frollo eyes him, and notes his red cheeks, his quivering lips. "Excuse me?" Frollo replies lowly.

"Minister... they were prepared to put you back in the dungeons! And you're just going to sit before me like nothing happened?!" Bonhomme says incredulously.

"Do you have a point you wish to make?" Frollo notes, his gaze flickering down to the stacks of parchment littering his desk. His headache returns with a vengeance, angrily pulsing at his temples. His heart rate hastens, its pulse vibrating in his skin. The words volatile and capricious suddenly enter his head.

"Minister, if that punishment seemed lenient, that's only because I managed to convince them that you were still useful!" Bonhomme retorts, and the white-hot prickles of angers explode across Frollo's skin. His hands tighten into fists on the desk. Esmeralda's judging, vibrant eyes yet again burn, embedded behind his closed lids.

"I risked my own head for you, and you barely acknowledge that for the past few weeks your staff reports you being drunk for the majority of the time!" Bonhomme nearly yells, and something within him _snap_s.

"Why even bother then?! Why even risk yourself if I have been such an egregious error on the monarch's part?! Why not do what you should have done weeks ago and have me condemned!" he snarls, smashing his fist to the desk with such force the candles go flying haphazardly off the wooden surface.

For a moment, he can feel his world shift off its axis, can feel it sink into fire as the doubts that _she_ has brought to him finally surface from the dark depths he attempted to bury them in.

Bonhomme's legs tremble, and Frollo watches the man sink into the chair behind him. Bonhomme's eyes are wide, and in any other situation it would be comical.

Frollo's own breaths are uneven, rasping from his starved lungs. He feels unbearably vulnerable, and utterly foolish. He turns away to stare out of the window, wishing the earth would swallow him. Yearning for his old ignorance that made each of his wrongdoings seem part of some larger destiny, some path to redemption.

And a voice cuts through his inner monologue. "Because no one else can do this, Frollo."

Shocked, he turns, reeling from the admission. "What do you mean?" Frollo snarls, feeling like a caged animal.

Bonhomme stares up in terror at the now feral minister, so fearful. But he manages to say, "The Court won't tell you this. I shouldn't even tell you this. But you have no suitable replacements. They all are fiendishly attached to their own posts... Paris is notorious, Minister. No one, I repeat, _no one_ wants to take it on!"

Frollo takes in a shuddering breath, still shocked. He chooses skepticism. "That is absolutely ridiculous. This post is honored. Not one ambitious, sniveling noble is willing?" he sneers, his frame quivering.

"Not one who is qualified enough," Bonhomme responds.

Frollo stands, motionless, save for the heaving of his chest. The rush of pride, the feeling of bitter triumph, at being the last man standing, the last man able to do his duty never comes. He's instead hollow, and to his disgust, terrified.

He used to have such... pride, such assurance in his work... it was truly the only part of his life that could stir in him some sort of emotion, some sort of passion... until...

He swallows thickly, and then takes in a shuddering breath that somehow doesn't help his absolutely frayed nerves. He can feel Bonhomme's wide eyes scrutinizing him, fearfully predicting what the madman will do. Frollo's fist shakes as he clenches for dear life, nails cutting into his palms.

For a moment, he stares down the attendant, vision misted with red, and desperation bringing him to the edge of disaster.

Suddenly, he breaks, a harsh bark of laughter wrenching itself from his throat. Frollo watches as Bonhomme gapes at him in poorly disguised fear.

A savage grin spreads across his lips. "Well then. If I am the only one fit... then the slum and madhouse of Paris has its match in a minister," Frollo remarks mockingly.

So, he was trapped, meant to stay in this position, be beaten like an errant dog each night. Meant to live with the lack of conviction that now eats away at his mind, like maggots in carrion.

He once believed Paris needed his strength and resolve, his unquestionable morality.

That man is gone, burnt by his own wanton destruction of Paris, beaten by the clubs and whips of exile, maddened by the image and voice of a woman.

But no one else wanted his post. No one else could do his post. What kind of cruel trick had his Lord intended, saddling Paris with an impotent, mad minister?

With a cruel smile that mocks the absolute hopelessness of it all, Frollo turns to the mountains of work, harshly flipping through each scroll, scanning the weeks' worth of reports and depositions. He still feels the fearful glance of Bonhomme. Frollo's gaze snaps up, dark eyes glinting cruelly beneath furrowed brows. The lines of his face are rigid and severe, almost as if cut in by the sharpest of blades. And when that gaze falls upon him, Bonhomme feels as if his own life is in jeopardy.

"If you intended on keeping me in my post, I suggest you do your job now!" Frollo hisses, his entire form crackling with barely pent-up anger. With some satisfaction, Frollo watches the attendant fumble for his quill and parchment, and frantically begin to scribble notes.

Frollo attempts to relax the tension that has him stretched tight, and wills himself to calm the fire that still rages in him. He can't breathe evenly, and he hates the physical weakness that reminds him that he's unsure, that he's afraid.

"Minister... I just... no one else has been able to do this... not like you... I think... you can do good things for Paris. I just hope you can figure out how," Bonhomme carefully says, his voice only quivering slightly.

Frollo ceases his movement of parchment, nearly struck dumb by the comment. He has the urge to call the attendant a fool... but something makes him hesitate. Perhaps it is her voice, echoing through his head, reminding him, almost challenging him-

_"I just wish you would actually change things instead of wallowing in pity,"_

xxx

She thinks of him.

No matter how hard she tries, no matter what she does, Esmeralda still thinks of him.

On her back, staring at the darkened ceiling of her tent, she repeats the events of his drunken tirade, and of his apology a day later. While washing dishes, she can feel his soft hairs rather than lukewarm soap-water. While sewing up old threadbare dresses, she keeps pricking herself, too distracted by her own thoughts.

She dances to distract her self. But dancing until she passes out into a dreamless sleep is not logical option. Not when there seems to be an alarming amount of mothers needing to care for their sick children. Not when there are so many chores, and not enough hands to do them.

She tries to speak with Clopin about it. But every time she sees her brother, he grins so wide, and looks so relieved to see her, she immediately shuts up. She knows he would try to keep her in the Court of Miracles if she so much as mentioned what she had been inside the Palace of Justice.

Fleur's talk was... interesting, but Esmeralda wondered what the woman would say if she revealed the true identity of her "changed man".

Why hadn't she? Was it because she wanted to hide the fact the encounter with Frollo even happened?

Or was it because...because she thought she couldn't explain fully what it felt like to have a monster crumble into a man before her eyes? Was it because Fleur, Clopin, everyone would think her foolish for even suggesting that Frollo was... human?

Either way, what did _that _say about her?

A loud splash and muttered curses shocked her back to the present, as she looked up to see Clopin rolling up his sleeves and attempting to jostle her out of the way. "Did Augusta say something to make you start cleaning dishes?" Esmeralda says, laughing under breath.

"No, little sister-you are going out. You've been standing over this washtub all day. Plus... yes Augusta thinks I'm a useless drunk, please help me, just go and say I was a good brother please?" he whispers in a rush.

"Christ, you must be in trouble," Esmeralda grins mischievously. She makes no attempt to move, and a playful smirk plays on her lips. When he gives her a pointed glance, she says casually, "But why should I help you, when you felt the need to tell Imelda I was the one who threw mud at the Captain of the Guard?"

Esmeralda stifles a full-throated laugh as Clopin's eyelid twitches and his hands wave about like flags in the breeze. "That was ten years ago, sister!" he hisses.

"Hmmm... Was it? The beating I got seemed like yesterday!" Esmeralda says innocently, chuckling, and having way too much fun.

"Esmeralda please!" Clopin whines, his gaze darting to somewhere behind her head. Esmeralda turns to see Augusta exit her tent.

"Oh of course brother, thank you so much!" Esmeralda calls out loudly, and so artificially even Clopin shoots a glare at her. Smirking to herself, she strides away, happy to be free of the repetitive chore.

As if summoned, Djali bounds over, rubbing up against one of her legs and bleating loudly. Smiling, she scoops up the goat, inhaling his musky, straw-infused scent. Esmeralda strides through camp, walking past the multicolored, patchwork canvas tents that line the path. After snatching her tambourine, Esmeralda turns to the entrance to the catacombs, the old, often putrid smell of sewage and bodies barely registering. Winter is coming, a relief for those who live in the Court. Summer heat felt good on the skin, but didn't have the same positive effect on the smells.

Esmeralda emerges from the catacombs and walks her usual path towards town. The dirt is cold beneath her feet; she'll need to wrap her feet in rags soon.

She still thinks of him-how could she not, when each step of hers takes her closer and closer to his hideaway? _You're obsessed. Stop it, _she tells herself.

With relief, she finds her usual dancing spot. At least now she can forget about him. Hopefully she can simply learn to do that without needing her tambourine and moving feet.

She shrugs off the old woman disguise, stashing the cane beneath her cloak. She looks around at the busy street, and smirks. "Plenty of customers today," she murmurs to Djali.

Esmeralda rolls her ankles, and spreads dirt across her palms and feet. She slowly closes her eyes, and summons the tune in her head.

Slowly and surely, she rattles the tambourine, a gift from her brother. She carefully sways and steps in time to the tune she hums, and then huskily sings.

A small crowd, mostly children that haven't learned to stay away from her people, gathers round. She grins broadly, spinning and whirling faster and faster. The crowd begins to clap, much more receptive than usual. She hears the clink of coins falling in her hat.

Several songs later, she stops, not wanting to attract the attention of any nearby guards. But the children soon complain. "I'm sorry, that's all for today!" she says apologetically, winking at the littlest child. The girl frowns. "Please!" she pleads, and the others clamor for her, one tugging at her skirt. The much older viewers nod in agreement. Esmeralda stares down at the brown-eyed girl, and instantly relents.

"One last dance," Esmeralda announces, and the children scatter from her, perching on various crates that surround her "stage".

Esmeralda begins her dance. But as she stops one of her spins, her heart immediately drops.  
>Claude Frollo sits atop the ferocious black stallion that now trots down the street ahead of her. His eyes are affixed to her, and she immediately panics, ready to cut the performance short.<p>

But as she stops her movement, she realizes that he hasn't moved towards her yet. He hasn't even attempted to gallop towards her, even though they both now if he wanted to, he could be charging towards her now.

An eyebrow arches high, and she purses her lips in a frown. What was he waiting for?

It's then she hears the cries of frustration and pleading once again from the crowd. "Come on, sweetheart, dance!" exclaims one of the coarser men of the crowd. Esmeralda shoots a glare at him, all the while remaining hyperaware of the man who's making no attempt to hide his intense gaze.

Carefully, she begins to dance again, testing the waters. Even as she spins and kicks her legs up higher and higher... he doesn't attempt to arrest her. In fact... he seems unable to move.

She keeps dancing... she makes her moves more risqué...the children of course, don't notice, but the men mutter and nudge each other as she undulates her body, stretches her long limbs to their limits. When she lands a cartwheel she looks to see if he has moved away, if her display has become too lurid for his tastes.

But he's still there, transfixed... paralyzed even. As if her movement, her dance has him in a dream-like state. His eyes burn, and even from across the street she can feel their power, their intensity as she arches her back, arms outstretched behind her.

She lands a back flip, eliciting a cheer. _He's still there..._

Curiosity, and an itching _need _rear their dangerous heads. And she suddenly becomes reckless.

"Would you like me to try something new? Would you like to hear a story?" she announces charmingly. Of course they agree. Why would they not? She muses.

She turns to the wall, closing her eyes. Then, the perfect tale spins out behind her closed eyelids, tempting and begging her to let it fly,

With a smirk she turns around... "All stories begin with once upon a time," she sings, her eyes glinting with mischief.

She twirls around, her hands forming the rhythm of her tale with the tambourine. "There was once a rich man, a man you could call... a king," she begins.

Her hands flutter. "He ruled over a land that was wide and vast."

"He had so many riches..." the beat of her tambourine was relentless as each word bounced off her lips into the eager crowd's ears.

"One day, the king spotted a rose, that sprung up on his grounds. One, solitary, wild rose." She mimes the growing flower with her hands, twisting and curving her arms like serpents at play.

"He had never seen a flower so beautiful. But when he tried to pluck the flower, he cried in pain. There were thorns on the flower. Ouch!" she exclaims, and a child giggles as she shakes her hand in imaginary pain.

"The king frowned, and said, 'Flower, I command you to stop hurting me.'" She deepened her voice, and smacked her tambourine with a finality that rang out over the square.

"But the flower said nothing." Esmeralda continued, placing a finger over her lips.

"The king ran back into his palace. When he came back to the flower, he held in his hands more gold than the flower had ever seen. 'If you come with me, I will give you all this gold'."

"But the flower said nothing."

"Grunting and huffing and puffing, the king stamped back into his castle," Esmeralda says, mimicking the 'king's' movements and twirling to face another part of the crowd.

"When he came back, he held so many jewels, the flower thought he would collapse from the weight. 'If you come with me, I will give you the gold and all these jewels!' the king exclaimed."

"But the flower said nothing."

The king beat his fists on the ground and screamed. 'What could you possibly want that I cannot give you?!'" Esmeralda exclaims.

"The flower said nothing for a long time. Then, she replied, 'My freedom, dear king.'"

"The king's face turned red as tomatoes. He stamped away from the flower, cursing at the top of his lungs. When he came back, he came back with a sword. 'If you will not come with me willingly, I will take you!' he yelled. And with one swoop of his blade, he cut the flower from the earth and took her for himself," Esmeralda says, and her emerald eyes meet the cold dark ones of the minister who still has not left.

For a moment, they are separate from the crowd around. Time slows as the intensity of their gazes communicates so much more than the story ever could.

And she never leaves his gaze as her lips form the ending of her story. "The king took his flower to the palace. But the flower lost all its petals, withering away and losing the beauty the king had so desired. For you see, the king had forgotten-that flowers do not bloom behind stone walls," Esmeralda concludes mockingly.

Esmeralda finally breaks the gaze to see a shocked, somewhat crestfallen crowd. So she makes up a new ending. Something about flowers blooming, the king learning his lesson and so on. _Let the kids have a happy ending. _

She gets her dues, and flashes a smile that does not quite meet her eyes. The people suddenly desert her, and she's left alone with Judge Claude Frollo, who looks down at her from his enormous black steed. "Is there a problem monsieur?" she says cheekily, and she can't help but smirk at him from her place.

Frollo is silent, and she can see the cogs of his brain turning, can see the debate of which emotion he should let slide out from his mask.

Finally, he responds. "An interesting tale. I suppose it is one of your heathen legends?" he grits out.

Her dance, her mocking movements, her throaty voice spinning that damning tale... all of it swirls in his mind, and he's drunk on her lust for life and desire to taunt him to his end. He can't help but feel fascinated and galled at her bravery. She surely knows the consequences for such acts... but she's absolutely steadfast in her resolve to push his every button. Bend him until he snaps.

He sees her expectations of him in her eyes. She's afraid, but still brave enough to stand her ground. He could so easily charge her and then take her to the Palace, flog her for such treason. He's done it to others for much less than what she's done.

But for some reason, he wants to relish this... interaction. He wants to hear her throaty voice cajole him, mock him. He wants to see her emerald eyes narrow in suspicion. He wants to see her cheeks flush in rage.

"No, simply a tale blooming from my mind, minister," she says wryly, and however frustrating she may be, her wit does amuse him.

"Of course. I would expect such a tale to come from someplace so..."

"Small?" she interrupts sharply, raising an eyebrow.

"Diabolical," Frollo responds.

"If there's any treachery in my story, it's because you see it. The children seemed to like it," she says. Inwardly, Esmeralda studies him. Why hasn't he made some move to capture her yet? Her heart thrums with a barely contained energy that makes her frantic.

"Ah, but children rarely do catch such treachery. So gullible and simple they are," Frollo responds with a smirk on his lips.

"I think you'd be surprised how much children do see," she snaps back.

An uncomfortable silence falls. She fiddles with the purse, heavy with coins, that hangs from her skirt.

"For one so poor, you seem to carry quite a lot of silver," Frollo remarks casually, but his eyes are sharp, boring into her and making her skin burn.

"Well, it was a good story. People like hearing about the weakness and tragedies of great men," Esmeralda remarks pointedly.

"I would think they enjoyed the story for the rose. When beautiful things are harmed... are destroyed... it's quite a tragedy," Frollo replies.

"But when one rose falls, several take its place. The roses will endure," she almost threatens. She can feel herself slipping down, the point of this conversation quickly spiraling out of her control, while her body is simultaneously anchored by the weight of his enigmatic gaze.

"But not that particular rose. She may never be replaced," he says, and he can't help the way his voice catches, the gravelly hoarseness of his tone. Suddenly realizing his error, he inwardly chastises himself. He's let himself be carried away again. He's let himself fall to her. And by the wide-eyed, baffled emerald gaze she now stares at him with, she won't soon forget his error.

His face hardens once again, and he finds he must defend his weakening fortress. "If you ever choose to dance like that again, I suggest you refrain. It would be a pity to see you flogged," Frollo clips; the familiar words of damnation and chastisement rolling like sweet honey from his tongue.

"Is this an act of mercy, Minister?" she quips, and he sees a small smirk slip across those soft lips. And he curses once again that he finds pleasure in that simple quirk of her lips, no matter how rueful and rebellious they suggest her to be.

"It is whatever you wish it to be," he says, attempting to be dismissive. But she has opened a dam within him, and crack-by-crack, he can feel the truth leaking out. So the words are said with a grim humor, one that pulls the corners of his lips up.

He's revealed too much. So he leaves. But as he feels her gaze burning into his back... he knows they will meet again. He can feel it in his bones.

xxx

I'M BAAAA-AAAAACK! thanks for reading! Review if you wish! -Cgal


	12. Chapter 11

Esmeralda wants to say she's not easily surprised. However, now more than ever, people keep doing the most unexpected things.

She attempts to explain away their interactions, and their more... civil conversations as nothing more than a minister attempting to manipulate his public image.

Of course it's more easily said than done. And she wonders... why did she... _want_ to see him again? Was it to prove that she was strong enough to survive his presence? Or... was it because she felt... curious?

Shaking her head, she goes about her day, sewing, washing pots and pans, chatting up the usual crowd in the Court. She realizes she's been ignoring them when they turn around and arch their eyebrows in surprise and suspicion when she plops down next to them.

Guilt fills her as silence falls on the circle. She didn't mean to withdraw... it's just... things have been so odd. But no matter how many excuses she makes she still has to force herself to keep her head up, and her eyes unwavering.

Finally, it's sweet little Susanna that breaks the tension. "Hello Esmeralda. How are you?" she says graciously, and Esmeralda feels relief flood her.

"Good, despite Clopin's yammering," she says humorously.

"Oh what is it now?" replies Susanna, eyes brightening.

"Something about Augusta. Apparently they had quite the row," Esmeralda gossips.

"Hmmm. Really? I wouldn't expect that," interrupts an older, wiser Samsa sarcastically.

Slightly surprised at the lack of intrigue on their faces, Esmeralda responds, "Perhaps you could update me on my brother's whereabouts? It seems he's been... quite stupid," she says pointedly, and all the women grin and smirk.

Samsa leans in. "Well, all I can say, is that the taverns were quite busy when you were gone. I honestly don't know where he puts it all... he's thin as a rake," she says with a smirk.

"Drinking?" Esmeralda frowns, suddenly worried.

"Oh don't look so surprised-he's always been a regular at the bottom of a bottle," Samsa says.

"...And in the bed of a brothel," Another woman, Michaela, adds coarsely. Samsa slaps her sewing hand. "There are children!" she hisses, staring at Susanna who petulantly pouts in response.

"I'm fourteen!" Susanna protests.

Both Michaella and Sansa roll their eyes.

"It's like he thought he was a teenager again. He's always been a wild one, but he at least would remember the names of the women he was ah, sharing his time with," Samsa says carefully, pursing her lips.

Frowning, Esmeralda, leans back, filing away that comment for when she'll see Clopin again. "How did he even meet Augusta, he won't say?" she asks suspiciously.

Michaela suddenly snorts, eliciting a glare from Samsa, and confused glances from both Esmeralda and Susanna. Samsa turns back to the green-eyed dancer.

"Well... lets just say... she was the one woman he kept... sharing his time with repeatedly, at... brothels."

It clicks in Esmeralda's mind, and she lets out a knowing, "Oh..." and shrugs her shoulders. "Makes sense. But... you all know I love Clopin. But even I'm surprised that Augusta's...stuck around," Esmeralda says. She hates to speak badly of her brother. She loves him. But... like all brothers, he could be downright stupid.

"We are too. Rumor is he's going to marry her," Michaela gossips.

Esmeralda blinks in surprise, then smiles. "I wouldn't object. Augusta's good for him, keeps him level. Plus... she's quite the cook," she grins.

"Yes, I suppose.. Although, that begs the question, when are you going to tie the knot Esmeralda? We always thought you would do it before your brother?" Michaela says, leaning over to her.

Esmeralda rolls her eyes. "I'll get married when I actually want to, not because my brother's tying the knot at last," she says forcefully, stabbing her needlework much harder than she intended.

"Whoa! No need to be cranky!" Susanna chimes in, giggling.

Annoyed, she sets aside the fabric, and stares at the young girl straight on, green gaze intense and serious. "I am in no hurry to get married. You shouldn't be either. I'll marry a man that I won't mind being with for the rest of my life, who respects and loves me."

Another snort interrupts her ramblings, and Esmeralda shoots a glare at Michaela who's choking back laughter. "That's such horse-shit," she chortles.

"Fuck off!" Esmeralda retorts savagely.

"Excuse me?"

The new, quiet voice speaks from behind her, and Esmeralda turns around to see a tired Rosa, baby in hand, her two other boys at scampering around her. Esmeralda's snarl dies on her lips when she takes in the haggard woman. She's thin, too thin, and her usually bronze skin is pale, with dark circles ringing her sunken eyes.

"Rosa... are you okay?" Susanna says softly.

Rosa blinks, as if she needs time to process the statement. Then, she says, "I'm okay. But... I need someone to take Tomas and Tobias. I... I can't watch them with Mikail... Mikail's sick," she rambles, and then the bundle in her arms interrupts her with a long, high pitched wail. "Shhhhh, shhhh," she hisses urgently, and Esmeralda can see her barely holding back tears.

"I'll take them," she volunteers, all too willing to help the frail looking woman that was frantically shushing her coughing infant. Esmeralda rises from the fire and bends down to face the two boys practically vibrating with energy. "You want to go on a little trip out of the Court?" Esmeralda says, winking. Both boys grin wide, and she smirks in response as she rises up.

"Don't worry about them. I hope you feel better when I get back," Esmeralda says sympathetically.

Rosa wavers a bit on her feet, as if she's about to fall to the ground. But she stays upright, and nods woodenly to her, exhaustion slowing her movements.

Esmeralda turns around and begins to lead the two boys who are whispering excitedly among themselves. From the corner of her eye, she sees Rosa drag herself back to the tent, barely containing her own coughs as she soothes her child's ailments. She frowns to herself, wondering what on earth was keeping Mikail sick for so long.

Shaking her head, she continues on, chasing after the two boys that are now splashing through the chilly water that leads to the Court entrance. "Out of my way!" Tomas says, jostling past his smaller brother. "Hands to yourself!" Esmeralda warns lightly, smirking to herself.

They run ahead of her, racing to the stairs, their shrieks of laughter echoing off the high dome-y place. "Hi Brutus," Esmeralda calls into the darkness, knowing the formidable guard is watching.

"Hi Esmeralda!" Booms out the unseen man. A subtle, sweet smile plays on her lips, and she follows the boys to the exit.

xxx

When she catches up with the boys, they are being chastised by a red-faced man standing by a chicken cart. Esmeralda quickly inserts herself between the youths and the flailing, spittle producing man that threatens to "have their heads on a sliver platter!"

"What seems to be the problem, Monsieur?" Esmeralda calmly, and charmingly says, giving him a flirtatious smile. She tucks the two boys, one sullen, the other terrified, behind her skirt.

"These two bastards ran me over! They nearly knocked over my cart!" he thunders into her face. _Flirting won't help with this one_, she realizes quickly.

"Is that all? Well I suppose they'll apologize and we'll be on our way," she says firmly, slowly pushing the boys before him.

But the merchant quickly retorts, "Oh that won't be enough from these gypsy bastards! They nearly cost me my livelihood! I want silver, pretty bitch!" he snarls.

She has to restrain the hot, passionate desire to throw the man into his cart and bash him over the head with his fucking chicken-cages. Incredulous, Esmeralda angrily exclaims, "You want us to pay you?!"

"Yes are you deaf? Ten silvers or I'll call on that guard!" he says pointing.

Esmeralda's features are a frozen mask of determination and fury, barely holding back the crackling energy beneath. She watches the blood drain from his face as she steps before him, eyes burning beneath furrowed brows. "Answer me this monsieur..." she replies strongly, words dripping with the disdain and hardness that bastards like him suck out of her.

"...was anything broken?" she continues.

"No, but-"

"So there is nothing to pay for," she concludes and eyes burn in a way that silences the man.

She turns to leave, then says, "Oh, and for the future, if you're going to scheme away someone's money, pick someone who has dimes to spare without starving. Bastard!" she spit out.

Turning on her hell, she calls out, "Come along boys," while resisting another violent urge to leave the man with a bloody nose as well as a wounded ego.

Xxx

She strides, no, marches through three twisting alleyways before she doesn't feel like a boiling kettle about to burst. She finds a place for the boys to play, tossing them a small, smooth ball and watching as they hurl it around. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees soldiers, chatting and chuckling. From what she hears, one of them is the new Captain, and Esmeralda feels a pang of guilt in her chest.

She wonders how this hired dog compares to Phoebus. Does he follow orders blindly, kill and arrest anyone his employer crooks a finger at?

Or did he actually use his brain, saw behind the orders to be a good man?

Phoebus had been a good man. Is still a good man. He's a good soldier when she thought there were none.

She tries to understand the loud but disjointed snatches of words being said behind her. But nothing fruitful comes of it, and she inwardly curses as they move away.

She had been the one to get Phoebus dismissed. Regret fills her so fast she squeezes her eyes shut to block the bitter taste of shame on her tongue. How could you know he would come to your defense? He chose this, she tries to rationalize, folding her arms and watching detachedly as the boys are hollering at each other.

But of course he would. He always would, she surmises, shaking her head.

Her mind suddenly goes to Frollo, the other man that weighs heavily in her thoughts nowadays. He had appointed this new Captain. So it was more likely than not that if the man had seen her milling about, he would clap her in irons for so much as breathing.

Stop being bitter. Don't let that bastard from the market ruin your day, she tells herself. But she never really was good at controlling her anger. Clopin always would bail her out from trouble as a girl, when she preferred to use fists instead of charms to solve her issues with the local boys.

So when she sees Tobias and Tomas huddle together to whisper, she at first doesn't eavesdrop. But immediately, when they mention the market bastard, she immediately listens, a truly wicked grin spreading on her lips.

She lithely steps toward them, taking cares to be absolutely silent so they don't stop their hurried whispers.

"...we can go on the roof, sneak away and chuck some mud at his cart... she won't notice we're gone!" Tobias, the older of the two boys, assures his younger brother.

"Planning something?"

Both boys jump at her voice, and turn red-faced. "Nothing!" Tomas squeaks, and he not so subtly elbows his older brother.

She feigns disappointment and nearly assumes the tone of lecturing mother... but then bends down to meet their brown gazes. "You know, as fun as chucking mud sounds... I have a better idea for Monsieur Cart-keeper," she says mischievously.

Tomas looks confused... but Tobias immediately catches on, and flashes an excited grin.

xxx

They find themselves perched on a thatched roof moments later, staring down at the bastard chicken seller. The boys vibrate with an excitement that she barely contains with whispered warnings and shushing. The plan won't work if he knows it's coming, she coos to them softly, and that anticipation shuts them up immediately. Their dark eyes sparkle with delight as she tilts over the side, a long section of rope dangling down from her outstretched hand. She nods to the boys, who carefully move the bucket of foul smelling stuff attached to the rope to the edge of the roof. Tomas giggles, and is instantly shushed by his older brother whose face has taken on a childish deviousness usually saved for when he's just dumped his girl-cousin's linens into the Seine.

Esmeralda's heart thrums with excitement, and she feels nostalgia as she looks at their faces. Instantly, a skinny, green-eyed girl with tangled hair and a rakish gangly boy come to mind, bringing a smile to her lips.

She snaps her gaze from their eager faces down to the pushcart. And waits.

The three Romani tricksters watch as their prey ambles out from his cart, and scratches at his scraggly beard with a dirty hand. He yawns, leaning against the wall behind him, his eyes glazed over with a laziness that seems to have fallen over all the shopkeepers at this time of day.

His gaze meanders... until it falls upon the single, shiny coin that's dangling from a thin rope.

He pauses, and the three of them see a grin spread on his face. And the air is suddenly thick with an energy that causes the boys to giggle under their breath.

His fat hand grips the coin... and pulls.

Suddenly, the man's glee turns to absolute confusion as liquid splashes onto his head. And the confusion soon sours to disgust and outrage as the rancid smell and grainy texture of the liquid. It's a mixture of red and brown...

Tomato juice and other sewage, ripe with age and stolen from a nearby shopkeeper, now stain his clothes.

He bellows a curse to the high heavens, and suddenly Tomas and Tobias are howling with laughter, bringing a grin to Esmeralda's face.

But that grin soon fades when his attention zeroes in on them, and his eyes bulge from his head in absolute fury. "Fucking bastards! Wait till I get the guards! Guards! GUARDS!" he screams.

"Run, run now!" Esmeralda urges them, and the three of them take off, legs a blur as they sprint across the thatched roof. She helps the boys leap over the multiple alleyways that segment the alleys, all the while glancing over her shoulder to see men clad in armor mustering below. Her heart races with a fear and excitement that has her breathless.

The boys are slowing. So she scoops up both of their bodies, and hurls them over her shoulders, desperation fueling strength. She still sprints, even as their weight bears down, slowing her rapid steps. She hurls herself across the rooftops even as a sharp pain needles in her side.

She reaches an alleyway that's close enough to the graveyard, and is relieved to find a ladder. She lowers the boys. "Run home, I'll keep watch and make sure they don't follow," she says hurriedly. Too petrified to argue, the two boys scramble down the ladder, frantically stepping down the rungs. She hears the shouts of soldiers, and her gaze darts over the alleyways and rooftops ahead of her to see where they are.

A huge crash ahead of her alarms her. Her head whips around to see two sheepish boys standing by a knocked over ladder. Judging by their facial expressions, she knows exactly what happened. Inwardly cursing, she says, "It's okay! I'll figure it out, just go back to the Court... run!" she yells.

The two boys take off, and she watches as they scramble back to the graveyard, making it into the gates without any issues.

She looks around frantically searching for a way down. But the building is incredibly high, and the only way to a smaller building is to go back to where the soldiers will surely find her.

Speaking of soldiers... hoof-beats are racing towards her, and she wildly searches for the rider. In a fluid, rapid movement, she flattens herself down on the roof, praying the guard hasn't seen her.

Then... a familiar voice calls from down below. "Are you quite comfortable up there?"

She stifles a groan, and rolls to the edge of the roof to see Claude Frollo staring up at her, a mocking smirk on his thin lips.

Her heart skips a beat, and a nervous, yet excited energy fills her. Realizing the pointlessness of hiding, she draws her knees to her chest and faces him. "Yes, thank you very much. Comfortable down there?"

Frollo stares up at the woman who's perched comically at the edge of the roof, legs dangling down as if she's sitting by the Seine, and not before the man who had pursued her across the city.

He had seen her, a blur of frenetic motion with two children upon her shoulders, leaping over a nearby rooftop while out and about with the assigned foot soldier meant to monitor his activities. The opportunity for freedom presented itself, and he had bolted with not so much as a muttered excuse to explain his departure.

It's a familiar pattern he now finds himself again in. Pursuing her. Chasing down a minx, a damnable temptress. Perhaps he should be ashamed at the willingness to chase her that urges him forward each time. He should be angered at the draw she has on him, the magnetic attraction that has him in awe of her even as she runs from him.

But he still stands, and it pleases him that her features are not twisted in absolute hatred. That she hasn't attempted to chuck a nearby bucket from that rooftop and connect it with his head. No. She's just sitting there, eyeing him with mischief and a deviousness that has him on guard yet disarmed all at once.

"I am quite comfortable. Perhaps you would care to join me?" he says mockingly, his voice cool and detached even as a thrill of exhilaration runs down his spine.

She pauses, then folds her arms over her chest and crosses her dangling legs in a manner that's so casual yet so performed. "Wouldn't want to crowd you, Minister."

Both of their glances dart when the screamed curses of the chicken seller reach their ears. Frollo's gaze slides to her own, and the crooked smile plays on his lips once more. "Why is it always that when trouble occurs, you are only a stone's throw from it?" he muses, But there is no accusing bite to the statement, only a humor and teasing lightness that causes her to tilt her head in mystification.

"I just seem to attract the wrong kind of attention sometimes," she says pointedly, her words taunting.

He feels her jab and yet doesn't lash out. "It would seem so," he drawls.

"It was his fault you know. He demanded we should pay him ten silvers when an apology for clumsiness would have been enough. So we just paid him back in kind," she explains casually.

"So it was revenge," he concludes, his eyes gleaming in such a predatory manner it sends a chill down her spine. But the fear, surprisingly, does not follow it.

"No, that's not what I said at all. You're twisting things again," she retorts. Secretly, she enjoys the verbal dance. It's... refreshing.

"I apologize. But from my perspective, things seem different than what you believe," Frollo replies.

She quickly rises to her feet, and he watches her eyes frantically scan for other soldiers. "A bit anxious, are we?" he smirks.

She immediately rolls her eyes and tosses her hair back in such a haughty way he instantly imagined a throne and crown at her disposal. "Don't gloat, it's unappealing," she says coolly.

"I'm not here to be well-liked," he replies.

"Right. I forgot... it's better to be feared than loved?" she says bitingly.

Slightly surprised, he grins at her. She's instantly reminded of a tomcat, those sharp canines making him feral yet devious all at once.

"Machiavelli. I'm actually impressed," he says.

"Don't get too eager, I didn't even know who it was by... I just see it in action," Esmeralda replies.

"I am sure you do," he says knowingly. And to his exhilaration, he sees the ghost of a wry smirk on her lips. A smile. A smile in his presence.

He tries to hide the swelling hope, the adoration that weakens him before her. But Esmeralda sees the slightest upward quirk of the corners of his lips. Her green eyes connect with his own gaze and a brief moment of silence passes between them.

Her lips part for a moment. And she looks to him so mystified that he feels embarrassed at his own slip up.

Then, the barrage and cursing of soldiers in the distance crash through the silence. Esmeralda snaps out of the odd stupor. "I suppose your cavalry is on its way," she calls out.

He can suddenly breathe once more. "Yes, to get you and the two accomplices," he taunts. But she does not hear an accusation, only a wryness in his deep, gravelly voice.

"Yes, boys of eight and six are really the most conniving of minions," she says while rolling her eyes.

"Who entrusted their children to you in the first place?" he drawls.

"Come on, didn't you see the familial resemblance, they're mine," she lies jokingly.

Frollo's eyes widen immediately, and a look of shock crashes over him. Seeing his bafflement, Esmeralda says in a rushed exhale, "You know I'm kidding, right?" She has to stifle a giggle at the bulging eyeballs. Who knew Frollo's face could take on such a humorous and clueless expression.

He blinks owlishly in comprehension, and then says, "How was I to know? I have no comprehension as to your life besides what you choose to reveal..." Slightly irritated, he grips the reins tight.

She sees him stiffen. "I'm not laughing at you to hurt you, you know. And even if I was... Jesus, lighten up,"

"Do not-"Take the lord's name in vane, I know the lecture," Esmeralda interrupts. And this time, it is him who rolls his eyes in aggravation.

The hoof-beats are gradually increasing in volume. _They're coming_, she thinks, pulse leaping in her veins.

She looks at the huge gap between her and the next building... and schemes. All the while, Frollo simply watches... no protestations, no howling tirades or domineering sneers. He just sits there. Mute.

Eventually, she finds a long pole. She grips it in her hands and faces the gap. It's then she realizes how quiet he is. "Why so quiet, Minister? You're never this silent," she asks, suddenly curious.

"I'm waiting." He responds curtly, his eyes following her every move.

"For what?" she asks, frowning.

The conflict that would usually urge him to curse her is oddly easy to ignore. He just doesn't see the point. Not when she's there, wild, liberated, and beautiful in every sense of the word. "For your grand escape," he says mockingly.

A frown of displeasure and suspicion cross her features, and her full lips pout in a way that makes his skin feel a flash of sudden heat. She stays a moment longer, and he wonders how he can delay her departure.

But she flees, as he knows she will. And her escape is indeed spectacular.

She charges towards the gap between the too buildings, her body a writhing blur, then stabs the pole towards the earth. The wooden rod bends and when her feet leave the thatched rood, his reaction is to move her, his hands and arms twitching involuntarily as a sudden flash of fear that she might perish flashes through his mind.

The rod straightens, and she soars, skirt flapping, long legs outstretched as she takes flight, a mad grin flashing on her face. She seems to careen through the crisp fall air, unpredictable, glorious as the sun gleams on her flashing limbs.

She eventually comes down to earth, rolling as she lands down on the next roof. She doesn't break her stride, instantly running. Always running from him, always fleeing from the madness she causes. The dance always continues... it frustrates him, maddens him... arouses him.

He swallows past a now dry throat, and composes himself when the guards arrive. They look wildly around, their boorish faces completely slack with shock that they have yet again made an error before their master. Blubbered excuses fall from their lips, words he can't hear because he debates inwardly. _Do you tell them, do your duty? Or do you let her go, leave her to taunt you another day?_

The slighted chicken-catcher huffs and puffs as he sprints towards them, obviously out of shape and doughy. Frollo's eyes flicker over his stained clothes... no other injuries though.

"They...assaulted me!" he claims, but no wounds or bruises mottle his body, and irritation flares in the minister.

He does not have the time or manpower to fund another witch-hunt, especially for something so slight.

At least that's what he convinces himself when her poisonous half smile flickers through his mind. Oh, he thought she was dangerous with a knife? A smile, and the promise of more could do a lot more on a man like him.

"Did she? Well, the punishment shall fit the crime. However, I see no gypsy or her rather miniscule accomplices. Therefore, the matter is done, for now," he concludes.

The guards are all in shock, an action he attests to his earlier behavior. They had thought for sure, that this time, their mad minister would catch his prey. That she'd be burned for sure.

For some reason the assumption leaves him cold. He snaps the reins, giving the fuming portly man an icy glare that silences any sort of protest. The coldness, the sudden shift in his demeanor has the men around anxious, fearing his capriciousness.  
>He motions for the novice that monitors him to join him. As he rides back through the tone, he instantly feels a craving, a yearning for her to make a re-appearance on one of the rooftops, running, grinning, and yelling her taunts into the cool crisp wind.<p>

xxx

Esmeralda eventually finds a place to dismount the roof into a hidden alley. Checking over her shoulder at every turn, she manages to make her way into the graveyard.

She opens the grave, and dashes down the stairs. She hadn't seen Tobias or Tomas on her way back, a fact that has her nervous. She quickly splashes through the catacombs, and finally makes it to the entrance of the Court.

When she enters into the familiar tent-laden streets, a crowd has gathered ahead of her. There's an edge of anxiety, of sorrow that tinges the air. Frowning, Esmeralda walks forward, her eyes darting around for the two young boys.

"Excuse me, have you seen Tobias or Tomas?" she asks one of the older men whose frown deepens the lines on his face. He turns to her, and there's a heaviness to his tone. "They're with their mother," he replies thickly.

"Did something happen to them?" she asks, instantly fearing the look of despair that hardens his face.

"Not to them. To Mikail... he's dead."

Esmeralda freezes, as if ice-cold water has been poured into her veins. "What? How?" she says, her voice weakened and cracking on the two syllables.

"It was the fever," he replies sadly.

Esmeralda's mouth drops open in absolute shock, and she turns rapidly towards the front of the crowd. Without another word to the weary old man, she weaves through the throngs of people, pushing past sobbing women and paralyzed men until she finally sees her. Rosa.  
>Rosa... has crumbled. Esmeralda stands absolutely paralyzed as she finally hears the wailing. The wretched cries that tear themselves from her hoarse throat. Her arms carry a bundled Mikail... what was once Mikail... Esmeralda instantly feels a cry of horror rend itself from her mouth, and hot tears spring to her eyes.<p>

Rosa collapses to the ground, sobs and wails flying from her mouth. From the corner of her eye, Esmeralda sees Tobias and Tomas, both wide eyed and terrified. The father is teary, a hand clapped to his mouth as he muffles the heart rending cries that send nails through her chest. As Esmeralda watches, she feels sadness... then a rage. How could his happen? How could a God let this occur under his fucking nose?

The rage... the sadness... it builds. And she stares, unable to look away, she feels helpless as she remembers that Rosa couldn't have paid for medicines even if the Court scrounged up enough money. As she remembers that justice has been gone a long time from this place.

xxx

SoI know Machiavelli's the Prince was published in 1513, so it would not be around in this time period,so sorry for that inaccuracy! :) Thanks for reading!


	13. Chapter 12

It's a brutally cold day, cold enough that the sun overhead does nothing to warm the people huddled around the small pit in the earth.

Esmeralda stands beside Rosa, who's doubled over and wailing as her husband keeps her upright. It's a sight she's unfortunately seen before-the throngs of mourners, her brother giving final rights, the sight of a too-small coffin being laid into the gaping maw of the earth. A tear springs to her eye, she's still not used to death. Clopin is of course. He's seen more death than she ever will.

Her heart aches at the very sight of Rosa, whose cries are interrupted only by a series of harsh coughs. The other mourners who attend are silent, save for those closest to the family, and a few others who join in Rosa's wailing. It's a spectacle that brings tears to her eyes, and leaves her with an unpleasant lump in her throat.

The ceremony is long, and finally, when it's her turn to throw dirt on the small coffin, she steps forward. She remembers the bright-eyed baby... she also remembers the desperate mother facing soldiers for medicine that could have prevented this.

"I'm sorry little one. I will miss watching you grow into the man you _should _have been, " Esmeralda hears herself say, and the sad words are tinged with a bitterness, a slight acidity that only Clopin senses. Gulping past the rock settling in her throat, she says a small prayer, and tosses the dirt down the hole, the dry scraping of dirt on wood the only noise besides the wailing.

Esmeralda steps back into the line, and a few moments later, the last prayers have been said, and two young men step forward with shovels and begin to close up the grave. Rosa sobs into her husband's shirt, her coughs and cries muffled by the fabric.

Eventually the crowd begins to disperse. Rosa leaves, leaning heavily onto her spouse, and is swallowed up by her close friends. Esmeralda feels a weariness that just leaves her drained.

Clopin moves towards her. "Are you all right?" he murmurs.

"I will be. I just need to be alone for a bit," Esmeralda responds. Her brother nods, eyes filling with understanding. "Don't be back too late," he whispers, squeezing her hand. She gives him a wan smile, and walks towards the exit of the cemetery, mourning veil still on as is the custom.

Her breath clouds in the air, and a cold wind cuts through her skin to her bones. She breathes in, trying to relax as shivers run down her body.

Esmeralda walks towards town, tugging her cloak tighter around her. Her now dry eyes sting in the harsh wind. The sun overhead disappears behind grey clouds. As she strides past thatch-roofed houses, her mind runs over the funeral... over Mikail. Two months ago, he was alive.

And a month ago, Rosa had the medicines in her grasp. And then the soldiers came.

It's hard not to feel as if it's their fault, and it's hard to not blame the entire system supposedly put in place to help people. It's also hard not to look up at the statues and crosses in Notre Dame and find it very hard to swallow.

For a moment she stops in the bustling square of Notre Dame, staring up at the giant structure that more often than not dictates the very laws her people suffer under.

Her thoughts turn to that Minister who she's so curious about. He was obviously religious. Look how that turned out. She frowns, eyes affixed to the cross on the church spire.

Another person bumps into her, grumbling something about 'filthy gypsies'. Suddenly overwhelmed, she has to stop herself from calling after the man and releasing the anger that boils in her blood.

She needs to calm down- her feelings from the funeral are too raw to stay out here in the crowded square.

Esmeralda quickly strides towards Notre Dame before she can convince herself not to. A few minutes in the quiet, and maybe she could go see Quasimodo.

She lets out a grunt of exertion as she pushes open the heavy wooden doors against the wind. Esmeralda slips inside, and the doors crash close with a loud bang. She flinches as the sound reverberates all around her, earning her the glares of the few parishioners kneeling in their pews.

They soon look away, and she carefully steps into the Sanctuary, making her way past the rows of candelabras. The flames of those candles dance, flutter as she passes.

She remembers hiding out in here. Long ago, when she had no idea about the church other than the loose knowledge passed down from her brother.  
>She has more knowledge, of course, from sitting with Quasi, inquiring his every tradition on each holy day.<br>But the understanding... the understanding of that absolute belief... she never really got.

She sits in one of the pews, far away from the altar, and tucked in a corner of Notre Dame. She doesn't want to be seen, doesn't want to be scolded by some devout parishioner.

She just needs a little peace and quiet.

Esmeralda stares up at the dazzling stained glass, her eyes drawn to that iridescent blue that reminds her of a long ago memory-of visiting the sea with her mother and brother. It's a fuzzy memory, one from the days of them wandering the countryside with her caravan, one where the sky was their ceiling, the grass and earth their bed.

Things seemed simpler... and yet, in those fuzzy memories, she can now see the dark side, the shadows of those glowing memories. People's coarse voices, having to be scooped up by her brother when villagers grew tired of their act and started throwing rocks, and other long forgotten memories surged to the forefront as she grew older and saw more and more of the world around her.

Mikhail could have grown into the strongest, smartest, and kindest man. But he would have still been a 'filthy gypsy'.

Her grip on the pew tightens as bitterness grips her. The raw sadness and frustration bubble up once again, and she lets out a shuddering sigh as she rubs at her tired, stinging eyes.

She hears footsteps approaching. Esmeralda freezes, shifting so her face can't be seen. She expects the parishioner to stare at her pew but move on.

The mystery person doesn't. Instead, the footsteps echo louder, and she realizes the culprit stands right behind her.

She carefully turns, only to have her heart drop. Frollo.

Instantly, a rush of anger surges through her, and she has to bite her tongue to prevent a string of curses from flying at the man. _You were looking for a culprit? Well, here he is. _

Esmeralda turns around, eyes burning beneath furrowed coal black brows. And the moment she sees his face, a wave of conflicting feelings crashes over her, leaving her stunned.

Overwhelmed by the sudden turmoil, she instantly walls herself up. "If you're here to tell me off, just shut it and leave me alone," Esmeralda snaps.

The minister blinks in surprise, and then balks at the gall of the little dancer. "Excuse me? Perhaps you would like to change your wording. Or have you forgotten manners as well as my stature?" he narrows his eyes.

She turns, her perfect teeth gritted in anger. Her eyes are shining, but red-rimmed. It's then Frollo's eyes see her usually free-flowing locks tucked beneath a black handkerchief. She no longer wears her skirt of purple, but a drabber threadbare black one.

He's no fool, and the pieces fall into place. The snarl that works it's way from his throat is tempered for now, and he sees a glint of confusion enter her eyes as he straightens up, eyes losing their blaze of anger.

Before she can tell him off again, he says quietly, "My condolences."

Her full, beautiful lips part in surprise, and she frowns. "How..." she murmurs, more to herself than anyone else.

"I did not become minister because I had no sense of logic or tact, Esmeralda," he replies dryly, his hand motioning towards her current dress.

Her mouth closes and she turns away and sharply says, "How observant of you."

Frollo keeps his eyes affixed to her stiff, closed off form, unable to move away. Her sharp tone cuts into him, and it sets him on edge, as if its an attack.

But she is in mourning... so the harsh piousness softens minutely, a foolish enterprise he knows leaves him vulnerable.

She's vulnerable too... he hears a shuddering sigh, he sees her red-rimmed eyes. Eyes that have been tearing up, and have been leaking those tears to create the dry, yet still visible trails down her face.

Uncomfortable. He shifts with unease as he's confronted with her grief. He was never the one to deal with the emotions. He always found the crying women he has had to contend with when sentencing their husbands and sons simpering, hysterical, or ridiculous.

None of these words appear in his mind. Instead, he feels a pang at the center of his chest, a twinge that leaves him momentarily gasping for air.

She'll drag him into some mess, as is her nature.

Yet he doesn't move.

Instead, he moves in the pew behind her, still keeping himself a good distance away, he doesn't trust himself. His hands are clasped in his lap, gripping each other so hard his knuckles turn white.

The words he chooses are diplomatic, yet betray his own dangerous sympathies. "You were... close to this person?" he murmurs, the words quiet, barely audible were she not sitting right across from him.

His usually thundering voice is subdued, hushed... and sympathetic? A perplexed Esmeralda turns to see him seated diagonally from her. His face seems like stone... but she senses an underlying sensitivity, a nakedness that has her baffled and him uncomfortable.

He asked her a question. She pulls herself out of her shock, to say, "No... he was my friend's child... a baby actually..." Esmeralda says hollowly.

A child. Frollo tilts his head, and sympathy fills him. "Tragic," he deigns, but his voice holds no mocking sharpness, not for her. He attempts to be diplomatic, even as his unease in the situation increases.

Esmeralda feels that bitterness return. "Yes, it is, isn't it?" she says a little too sharply, and his eyebrow rises in query. He silently entreats her to elaborate, and she decides to let fly and let the minister know what he has done.

"You know Rosa?" she says mockingly. Frollo narrows his eyes, as his sympathy slowly is replaced by foreboding.

He doesn't respond and she interrupts the silence. "Let me refresh your memory. Young woman, a little older than me... your soldiers arrested her for stealing and I stepped in?" Esmeralda says.

He vaguely remembers the other gypsy woman. "What on earth is your point?" he hisses in irritation.

"My point is she was stealing to get medicines for that child. That child is dead because she couldn't treat him," Esmeralda says accusingly.

To her chagrin, Frollo barely moves a muscle at her allegation, keeping that same damn stoic, yet disbelieving expression. "You blame me for his death?" he questions, and for a moment, she has to push down the urge to smack him.

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Esmeralda, stealing is against the law, reasons noble or otherwise insidious. I cannot make an exception simply because of circumstance. The woman could have paid for the medicines herself in some manner. She chose to steal," Frollo lists out pragmatically.

"That's completely unfair! How can she get the money when she's Romani? When no one will trust us enough to walk before us in the street, let alone give us an occupation?" she retorts, growing increasingly agitated.

"Have you attempted to do something other than tell fortunes and dance?" is his only response to her.

Esmeralda laughs bitterly in response. "Why should I try when I can't even get close to the buildings before they start chasing me away like I'm some stray dog?"

"But have you been truly persistent? Or is this an assumption?" Frollo interrogates, curiosity glinting in those dark eyes.

She grits her teeth and her face flushes hot and red. "Fine! It is an assumption, but seeing how you treat me, is it really ridiculous to assume so? And what would you know of occupation? Being a nobleman, you were entitled to an education and your position before you could walk!" she hisses defensively.

"So, you point to my birth and assume I in no way worked to gain my title? That I was simply blessed with my duty? Allow me to let you in on a little secret. It is no blessing! Not anymore," he replies hotly, his voice clipped and almost metallic in nature.

"Please! You enjoyed sentences and executions. You took pride in the body count and arrests you would rack up!" she snaps, and Frollo flinches as her voice starts to climb in volume.

"Perhaps I did. Perhaps I indeed took pride in my duty given to me by my God. But it was my duty! I enforce the laws given to me by my country, by my God. I do not enact such decrees, but follow and punish those that break them. No exceptions. Not even your friend," Frollo nearly snarls, his voice cutting through her. His face is twisted into a feral grimace, and his burning eyes are directed with pinpoint accuracy to her emerald ones.

The emerald eyes that burn in anger... and palpable frustration. The emerald eyes still reddened by tears... the tired eyes that have probably seen so much for one so young.

His anger begins to ebb away. Her points are direct and cutting, and she assumes so much of him and his life. It's maddening though. She angers and berates him... but she also fascinates and captivates him all at once.

And he can't help the sympathy that strikes him to the core, twisting him in knots. "I can't make exceptions... no matter how tragic the consequences of such laws are," he finally says, his voice losing its metallic edge, deepening to become barely audible.

But she hears it, and although he still sees anger there, her features soften, and she lets out a long-suffering sigh.

"I guess... you're right," she admits begrudgingly after a long silence.

Esmeralda stares up at him, the air between them thick with tension and fury. Then, exhaustion hits. What really was her point? To blame him? She wouldn't really get anywhere. She's quickly losing steam, and feels so goddamn tired.

"Excuse me? I don't think I heard you correctly," he taunts gently.

She groans, burying her head in her hands. His small smirk disappears, replaced by a frown. "Why are you even here? Shouldn't you be with family?" he offers quietly.

She straightens up, rubbing at her stinging eyes. "I needed to be alone," she replies.

"Well, if I am not welcome," Frollo concludes coolly, rising from the pew.

"No..." she blurts out. Frollo's gaze falls on her once again as a look of complete bafflement slips onto his features. She flushes red, now completely mute as she attempts to explain away the outburst even to herself.

"I don't really intend to provide you with a sparring partner," Frollo comments sharply. _Of course you do, why do you find every opportunity to goad her on? _He inwardly admonishes himself for the lie. Masking his weakness, he sits swiftly, attempting to keep a good amount of space between them. But also reveling in the wafts of her sweet scent that seem to float to him, tempting him.

"You seem to enjoy it," she fires back, finally finding her voice.

"I'm not the one who asked the other to stay," he clips.

"I didn't ask you to stay if you remember correctly," she bites back.

She's quickly becoming much more irate as they continue their verbal dance. In order to make her remain... he has to... cede something to her. Reluctantly, he chooses to forget her outburst, verbally maneuvering away from the telling truth.

"Then answer this question. Why come to Notre Dame? Surely there is some other place you could be alone?" he says.

She frowns, wringing her hands. "I dunno. It's a quiet place," she mutters.

"No other reason?" he says eyebrows arched as he leans towards her.

"I'm not religious, if that's what you're implying. I'm pretty sure you know that more than anyone," she says pointedly.

"Am I supposed to believe that a... woman who wanders into a church after a funeral is there simply by accident?"

"Coincidences happen," she says with a shrug.

Irritation flares, but he attempts to remain coolly indifferent. "Do they really?" he prods.

She glares at him through tired, bloodshot eyes. "Yes. No matter how much you want to believe that I have some affinity with your faith, I don't. Got it?" she concludes harshly.

He bites his tongue, the sharp pain keeping him grounded, keeping his mouth shut before he absolutely bellows in anger. Blasphemy. How many times was she to disobey his faith and live in sin?

And why did he feel so... bothered by this rejection? She was just a gypsy.

Esmeralda immediately turns from him, tugging her hood lower on her head. Like a petulant child, he inwardly mocks.

But, he sees a small tremor shudder through her cloaked frame. And hears a small, choked gasp, so quiet, he wouldn't have been able to hear if his attentions were not wholly focused on her.

Esmeralda can feel tears bubbling up. God dammit, what he said wasn't even upsetting, and yet she still feels like crying. She can still see that fucking grave, such a small coffin dropped into the maw of the earth. She can still see the little boy, so full of life, contrasting with the truth that now lies in that grave.

And why does he have to be here to see her cry? She hates it when people see her cry. But of all people, why does he have to be here?

She grits her teeth until her jaw aches, until she swears her teeth are going to buckle in and shatter. But the tears... the tears are still stinging, still threatening to roll down her cheeks.

His brow furrows in concern and he leans over, even as his own unease builds. "I... I apologize. I should not be speaking of such things, you are in mourning," he concludes, his voice barely above a soft whispers.

"No, no dammit I'm fine!" she protests but her voice wobbles.

She folds her arms tight around her body and shifts away. He can't be bothered to correct her foul language... not when her small frame shudders and her breaths gasp from her throat. She's so prideful, unwilling to show weakness, something that is all too familiar. His facial features soften as a pang of sympathy bolts through his frame.

The foreign desire to comfort rather than combat her urges him to do something, not sit here dumb and useless. But he hesitates. Perhaps it would be best to retreat and leave her.

He hears a muffled sob. The sound seems to punch a hole through his ribcage, right to that palpitating organ that is more enslaved to her day by day.

His hand rises from his lap, fingers quivering. His hand wavers as he hesitates.

But another hitched breath leaves her. And he slowly and gingerly places his hand on her shoulder, his touch light as his heart leaps into his throat.

Esmeralda feels the touch and freezes, muscles tensing. But his touch is light, soft... he isn't attempting to grab her or strike.

She shifts around to face him, to see him snatch his hand away, like a child caught pilfering the sweet jar. His usually pale cheeks flush pink, and he grips his hands in his lap with his averted.

And she realizes... he tried to comfort her.

Tilting her head in puzzlement, she scrutinizes the very uncomfortable man before her. He's embarrassed. He surely knew what his actions suggested... and yet... he still wished to comfort her.

And she can't think about what ifs and contingency plans anymore. She can't analyze his actions, attempt to poke and prod him about the supposed altruism he suggests through that one hand. She's so damn tired.

She just... wants that comfort. So she slips her hand to his own hand and grips it.

Frollo stifles a small gasp, not wanting to seem like a clumsy youth. But she's touching him... willingly. Not in his dreams, not in a carnal way. Just a small touch. But as she squeezes his palm for dear life, he knows that she needs this. And perhaps by extension, needs him.

His thumb rubs against the back of her hand as he cradles the small palm within his pale one. White and caramel skin juxtapose against each other. And he stifles his elation not wanting to seem over-eager. Not wanting to break this fragile moment that leaves him breathless.

They sit in silence, as the Romani queen lets her tears fall down her cheeks, and the minister of justice keeps her tethered to earth and radiates a comfort that he has never felt the need to show before.

xxx

Thanks for reading!


	14. Chapter 13

As Esmeralda clutches the slender, pale hand in her own dark one, the trembling tears eventually stop. She breathes, in and out, ragged but constant. Frollo listens to each and every inhale and exhale, all his being suddenly focused on that one minuscule action.

He sits, holding her hand for what seems like forever and an instant. Then, the bells ring the hour.

Esmeralda sniffles, a sound he should find disgusting but simply is... endearing. She wipes her eyes on the back of her other hand, and glances at him, a sheepishness touching her features. Sensing the sudden...awkwardness, he slowly releases her hand, even as his body, his soul, urges for more than just that one touch.

"I...I should be going. Quasimodo is probably expecting me soon.. I visit him today," she stammers out, heart hammering against her ribs. Why was it suddenly so warm in the once frigid space?

The crimson, sweet blush that colors her cheeks makes his breath shorten. His eyes can't leave hers, of course not. He nods in understanding. "Yes. I suppose if duty calls," he responds, taking his now tingling hand and shoving the triangular chaperone harder on his head. Esmeralda sees the move, and a wan smile touches her lips... lips his eyes fall on too easily.

He rises quickly, before indecency takes control. Before his blood surges with heat. _Remember who you are, who she is,_ he inwardly chastises himself.

But the air is thick with change. He knew it. She knew it.

Esmeralda nods, her eyes unflinching in their stare. She rises, wrapping the cloak tighter around her. "I suppose you'll be on your way then? Torture chambers, arrests, trials... the works," she blurts out, crossing her arms and attempting a mien of aggravation. However, she doesn't hide the glint of her ease around him, nor does she disguise the teasing edge of her words.

He can't help but smirk at her words. "Of course. Where else would I be more at home then in a dungeon?" he says cryptically. The smirk soon fades, as curiosity rears its head, and despite himself, he says, "How is... he? The boy?"

She knows whom he speaks of. And is entirely caught off guard that he would even ask. No mockery, no tricks, no agenda. Just... a simple, honest question.

It baffles yet pleases her. "Hardly a boy anymore. He's ventured out more... there's always the bastards that can't see him for the man he is..." here she grits her teeth, a fierce loyalty that makes his heart swell. "...but there are others that are kind. In fact, I hardly see him since he's started seeing Madeleine."

"What?" Frollo interjects, eyes widening beneath furrowed brows.

The throaty chuckle she lets out warms him. "Surprising, isn't it? The girl seems decent, no schemes of her own. He's happy," Esmeralda assures the baffled man before her.

He couldn't comprehend it. The... hunchback... the child he had nearly thrown down a well because of its misshapen face... was seeing a woman?

She sees the absolute confusion, the wild look of bafflement that furrows his brow. She would laugh, if his reaction weren't so telling about his relationship with his... ward.

"People can surprise you, Minister. You're not always right," she reminds him tauntingly.

"I am an old man, Esmeralda. I have seen enough to have expectations," he reminds her quietly. It was such a gentle utterance, she wouldn't have heard had he not leaned in to dispense the words to her.

She looks up to him, studying him, scrutinizing the man before her. The wrinkles on his face were deep, deepened by long years of his life. Old man. Sometimes he would taunt and chide her in a way that made her forget that he was old.

Yet when he held her hand just moments before... he had done it freely. He had done it out of compassion. He hadn't shied away from her touch, scoffed in disgust. He just... did it.

"Old dogs can't learn new tricks. But maybe ministers can," she replies. With that comment, she turns in the pew and walks out into the aisle, gliding over the tile floors. "Always have to have the last word," he mutters under his breath. But he remains silent as she turns the corner, disappearing up into the bell-tower.

The bells have ceased their ringing, reminding him that he's late for his regular meeting with Bonhomme. But his mind wanders from work as he contemplates her words... and still feels the skin of his palm tingle from her touch.

He realizes he resembles a statue, idling about, paralyzed in his tracks. So he shakes off his stupor as he strides forward. His eyes wander to the prominent statue of the Blessed Mother that eyes his every step. He finds it so ironic that such a benevolent figure would cast such an intimidating shadow on its parishioners. But then, perhaps it was only the sinful, the licentious that felt such a threat.

Was it truly a sin for him to have believed the boy-Quasimodo- was too monstrous to ever see human eyes? She, Esmeralda, certainly believed so. He could sense the accusation behind her calm words, could feel her bite.

As he mounts his horse, he looks upward to where his former ward resided. Where she now was. He feels a twinge of jealousy. However misshapen he was, he still retained a... goodness that attracted the woman.

She looked to you for comfort, remember, he tries to chide himself, trying to take pride in the small victory. But her actions simply leave him confused as well as elated. Why would she reach over to him? Why would she sit so close, too close to be safe from him?

Was she tempting him?

He nearly snorts at his own ridiculous query. Of course not. Any temptation she presented was unintentional. He was no boy toy, no man she would ever want in... the carnal sense.

His face hardens, and he kicks his steed a little too vigorously. Ares lurches forward, cantering down the streets. Frollo soon finds that thinking of her presents too many volatile emotions, so he turns his thoughts to the hunchback.

Quasimodo. Even the name he had given the boy was manifest of his own... disgust of the bell-ringer. Frollo had been so terrified, convinced the child was the physical sign of the gypsy mother's sins. A demon, the spawn of wicked deeds.

Yet, the boy had grown... strongly obedient, a moldable mound of clay to his own agenda. Well, obedient until his 'friends' were threatened.

Esmeralda heavily implied he was the sole reason for the boys torment. That he now was better off to be gallivanting about outside his home. That he would be fine despite the ridicule of the outside world.

He frowns at the current developments that Esmeralda had dispensed so gleefully. That he was fine. That he was... courting a woman.

The woman must be manipulating him... whoever the girl is, he surmises. But he's less sure, less confident about his perceptions.

He's a brilliant tactician. Perhaps it is a sin of pride to assume so... but in truth, he feels secure in that department. But ... recently, where affairs of more personal matters are concerned... he feels blind, uneasy.

He glances again at the bell-tower, the former prison of the boy. The scene of his absolute downfall. He winces at the memory, the past all too fresh in his mind.

Quasimodo knew him now as the murderer of his mother. A fact he had dispensed so brashly, as the rage had filled him. Now, to reflect on the actions, he's not surprised the woman-Esmeralda-had been so frightened of him that night in the cell.

Which made today's events all too surprising. He was a monster. The wrathful demon, poisoning the mind of the boy... making him into his 'minion', for lack of a better word.

Yet she touched him. Willingly. Yet she found comfort in him of all people.

A throbbing, dull pain blooms behind his eyes as he contemplates the damnable situation he finds himself in. His lips curl in repugnance at the turbulence, the absolute madness of his mind. It was all too confusing, he feels himself spinning out of control.

He reaches the Palace of Justice, ties the horse in the stable, climbs up the stairs to his chamber. Bonhomme waits of course, quill in hand.

Frollo seats himself across from the portly man, the throbbing pain expanding to become a full-blown headache. He feels grouchy, the epitome of an old miser holed up in his fortress.

As Bonhomme drones on and on, his thoughts wander to her. Was she all right now? Or crying to herself in some hidden corner? She was so prideful, wiping her eyes so roughly as if physical force would send her tears back to their spring.

She was so distraught earlier... distraught enough to want his company. To... grip him. It had to be madness.

Had to be.

Right?

"...the current soldier's have had difficulty adjusting to the new line of command...Minister Frollo, are you listening to a word I am saying, or am I speaking to that wall?"

His glance snaps up from the mountain of parchment ordered neatly on his desk to see an irritated Bonhomme before him. Frollo narrows his eyes. "Are they displeased with the new Captain?" he responds icily, inwardly chiding himself for his... distracting thoughts.

"They think he's... well... moronic," Bonhomme replies, adjusting his spectacles.

"I suppose they are making comparisons to his predecessor? The, ah, gallant Phoebus?" he says sardonically, a bitter mocking tone edging his words.

Bonhomme senses the shortness of temper, and shifts uneasily in his seat. "I think so, sir."

Frollo inhales, already weary from the repartee, from the reports, from his own dangerous thoughts.

Mutiny was a dangerous, dangerous game to play with his troops. In the past, it would've been unheard of for his own hand-picked guard to be so errant, so belligerent. Now, even he isn't immune to their displeasure, to their truancy.

So a compromise. "If they wish for the old Captain to be reinstated... I suppose it shall be done... with a price," he adds when he sees Bonhomme's wide stare of shock.

"You'll... reinstate him?" Bonhomme replies, and Frollo sees a glint of hope in the attendant's glance.

Scowling, Frollo shuts his desk with a loud _bang_. "Only on the condition that the man is punished before the troops, for his insubordination. He's no saint, and to reinstate him after disobeying orders with no consequence is... foolish," he calculates.

He hates this. Acquiescing to the troops' demands. It's aggravating.

At least Captain Phoebus, despite his faults and obvious sentiments, was a good soldier. He was efficient. Pragmatic. Enough so that even Frollo had to admit that his dismissal of the lout was more borne out of the situation at hand (here he nearly cringes at that damnable mess several weeks ago) than the overall man's behavior.

His face hardens as he mentally surveys his 'reign'. He had trimmed the fat off the cavalry and guard, but other than that, what else had he done? He had expended so much energy on a manhunt for a siren that proved to be absolutely pointless. He had fallen into a drunken stupor for weeks on end, leaving his duties entirely. The whole span of his revived career had consisted of missteps and grievous errors. It was a wonder he still had his head attached to his neck now.

He needs to fix this. For his own sanity, he needs to address his errors. Take the punishment. Bow his head despite his former stature.

"If I may be so bold..."

"You have in the past, what's stopping your impertinence now?" he hisses in irritation.

Bonhomme flinches, but continues. "Why reinstate him? If I understand correctly, you and the former Captain never saw eye to eye?" he asks, a bewildered expression furrowing his brow and leaving his mouth agape.

Frollo narrows his eyes. "As much as you would like to believe I am simply a tyrant with no concerns to his troops, I am a politician. I am quite knowledgeable in the art of balance and control. But do not fear. The man will pay for his insolence... I believe thirty lashes should suffice?" he replies coolly. Perhaps he says the comment with too much relish, for Bonhomme shudders. But there is no objection, and why should there be? He gave an order- Phoebus resisted. Leaving him unpunished would be... unwise.

Frollo motions for the message boy that stands at the edge of the room. "Boy. Go find the former Captain Phoebus, and tell him to report to the Palace of Justice tomorrow morning," he commands. The youth nods his head, and quickly sprints from the room.

Frollo leans back in his seat, rubbing at his tired eyes. Esmeralda's wan and tired face appears behind his closed lids immediately, summoned like a specter. What was it she said? Old dogs don't learn new tricks, but ministers can. Well, she would surely be ecstatic over this. Shaking his head, he mutters darkly, "What are the reports on the borders? Have they been lazing about, or actually doing their jobs?"

He needs to let her go. Needs to concentrate. But his hand still tingles, and his closed eyes still seek her in his mind. He can't help but feel as if she's here, looking over his shoulder, a small ghost spying on his every move.

_Is it really fair to punish Phoebus when you were ordering him to support your madness?_ She purrs in his mind's eye, her sharp glance falling upon him.

No wonder he thought her a witch, when his mind summons her apparition all too easily.

Bonhomme drones on, and Frollo struggles to remain focused. To block out her doubts, her imagined words... oh, but she's all too real in his mind. He almost yearns for her to actually be before him to dispel his maddening thoughts. To actually criticize him, smirk at him... it would surely cut through the numbing boredom that was the attendant's advising sessions.

But, then the hour strikes and the ominous knocks come at the door.

"Enter," Frollo calls out gruffly, tension mounting in his limbs. Preparing for the inevitable.

The hooded strongman lumbers into the room. "Minister, the hour has passed. Shall we go downstairs?" he says.

Frollo stifles a sigh. "There is no choice in the matter, is there?" he says sarcastically, but he rises from his desk, brushing past wide-eyed Bonhomme.

He did say he had to take his punishment, didn't he?

Frollo follows the burly soldier down the stairs. Not a soul remains in the hallways, a request he had made and was minutely grateful the Crown had agreed. It wouldn't do for the underlings to see their master weakened.

They reach the cell, the horrid dark place that now makes the old wounds on his back ache with pain. Frollo strips himself of his robes, his muscles already aching in pain from his exertion. A bitter taste settles itself on his tongue, one that makes his upper lip curl in disgust.

He tries to relax, the pain will be worse if he's tense as a floorboard. But logic no longer reigns; only the old fear of his former misery rears its head as he's clasped into the manacles dangling from above.

He stifles a shiver that runs down his frame as the cold, damp air hits his bare torso. Frollo affixes his eyes to the wall ahead of him, focusing on the minute details of flagstone.

He hears the steady breathing of the man behind him. Feels the hollow vibration of his lumbering steps as the man positions himself.

There is a brief silence. Then, Frollo utters, "Begin," lowly into the darkness.

The whistling of rushing air is the only warning as the cat meets his back-flesh once again. Frollo feels his body jerk away from the hot slice of pain that wraps down his shoulder blades. He grits his teeth to trap the howl of pain that's ripped from his throat.

"One."

SNAP!

"Two."

SNAP!

"Three."

How is it that he hasn't grown a thicker hide after all the lashes? After the amount stinging, hot, slicing lines of pain that he has endured, he thought perhaps he would adapt, grow immune.

It seems to grow worse with each repetition though, as his flesh becomes tenderer, more flayed with each strike.

"Four."

SNAP!

He can barely breathe, the pain is so intense. He wants to suck in a gasp for air, fill his lungs with the oxygen he so desperately needs. But that would require him to open his mouth... and scream.

"Five."

SNAP!

"Six."

SNAP!

"Seven."

He's not halfway through, and his vision is already starting to blur. Warm blood courses down his back, sticky, unpleasant. His hands are clenching, nails slicing into his palms as he desperately reaches for anything in his thoughts other than the pain.

"Eight."

SNAP!  
>"Nine."<p>

SNAP!

"Ten."

SNAP!

"Eleven."

His body twitches and jerks from the pain, a weakness he loathes. If he's to whipped like a dog, he will be stoic, strong. Not some weak, sniveling, criminal.

"Twelve."

SNAP!  
>"Thirteen."<p>

SNAP!

"Fourteen."

SNAP!

His entire existence has been reduced to the flagstones before him and the hot pain behind him. He remembers his torment of his exile all too well as the punishments are relived in his flesh.

Black spirals cloud his vision. He's forgetting to breathe, he's all too focused on keeping the damnable cries in his mouth and not echoing around the dungeon. Oh, the urge to scream, to howl, it's so tempting. To simply open his mouth and curse the man behind him, use the foulest of language, use languages these men have barely heard of to damn them all to Satan's pit.

"Fifteen."

SNAP!

"Sixteen."

SNAP!  
>"Seventeen."<p>

SNAP.

His head spins of its axis. The flagstones blur as his head feels so heavy, it would crash to the ground in a bloody heap if he weren't chained.

And suddenly... she's there in the darkness. Green eyes glinting in the torchlight. Frown pulling the corners of those full, kissable lips down. She's the picture of pity, of sympathy as she bends towards him.

_"Poor man. Poor, wretched tyrant. You knew this would happen..." _she coos, husky voice sweeter than any mother's lullaby.

He can barely stand, he doesn't know which way is up anymore. Her head swims in his gaze, so lovely, almost glowing in the darkness.

He can't stand it. "Fuck you," he mutters nonsensically to the woman before him, wishing he could despise her for the madness she caused him. Yet knowing he was the only one to blame for his insanity... for his faults.

Angry old man, screaming into the void, cursing everyone and himself for his own faults. How pitiful.

She seems to think so, her eyes glinting in a way that pities him. As if he's a pathetic creature, the bullied runt of the litter.

"Eighteen."

SNAP!  
>"Nineteen."<p>

SNAP!

"Twenty."

_"It's over now,"_ she murmurs. He feels himself falling, falling down, down into the abyss. Her soft hands _(oh her hand was so soft in his today)_ run over his wounds.

"Are you happy now?" he mutters, his words a combination of bitterness... as well as eagerness to please her, to redeem himself in her eyes.

Then, nothing. Blackness.

Xxx

When Esmeralda returns to the Court, the silence completely unnerves her. There's been deaths before. Of course there have. They lead dangerous lives.

But she's still not used to the silence. The cloud of somberness that always falls on the Court when this happens. There are no greetings, no bustling shop-keepers, no bartering wives. Only silence, and weary glances from sewing circles and tents.

Clopin sits with most of the men, crowded around a fire with a flask being passed around. They speak in hushed voices, grief in their faces. The death of an elder is one thing. But a child? A baby? That was too horrible, too sorrowful to comprehend.

Esmeralda infiltrates the circle, earning a few bemused looks. But Clopin moves over, acquiescing her silent request. He offers her the flask, from which she takes a long drink. The whiskey courses down her throat, burning her from the inside out.

Clopin clasps her hand, giving it a squeeze. "So where did you go?" he says hoarsely, and she can tell he's been probably talking all day, offering condolences helping their people with the death.

"To Notre Dame. To see Quasimodo," she says quietly.

Memories of the Minister rush into her mind. Memories she quickly pushes down. She feels like a traitor to her own brother. What would he think of her finding comfort in their enemy?

_Think of Quasimodo. He comforted you as well today, _she thinks.

_...His pale hand in hers... the look of sympathy... the way he treated her, not as a fragile, sniveling woman... but as a person. A person in need of some comfort..._

Luckily, someone sniggers in the circle breaking her from her thoughts. "The freak?" he jeers.

Her gaze snaps up. "If he's a freak, then I'd hate to see what the women who see your cock call you," she retorts hotly.

The whole circle erupts in shocked yells and chuckles. Clopin turns his glance to hers, feigning shock and disappointment... but humor glints in his eyes. "The courteous lady herself, Esmeralda Troulifilou," he announces, waggling his eyebrows.

She shoves him, a wide, but strained grin on her face. He pinches her forearm in return.

"How would you know, little sister? Have you seen it in the flesh?" the slighted man attempts to boast, eliciting groans and laughter from the circle.

With a wicked smirk on her face, Esmeralda leans in. "Perhaps I have. But it must have been so small it couldn't have made much of a sight," she concludes with a shrug.

The howls of laughter that echo around the fire are instantaneous.

When they finally calm down enough for Esmeralda to think again, Clopin squeezes her hand. "I think you won that round sister," he whispers.

"I agree," Esmeralda murmurs back.

Clopin takes another long drink from the flask. "So how is everyone?" she asks, knowing the answer.

"Shocked. Trying to move on. Listening to Rosa's wailing," he says, motioning in the general direction of her tent.

Esmeralda shakes her head, frowning. "Poor woman," she says softly.

Clopin nods... then takes another drink. "Tobias and Tomas are somewhere... Rosa's husband, Jean, he's trying to talk to her. It's not going well," he remarks, grimacing.

"She just lost her child. How could it ever go well?" Esmeralda comments. She pauses, her eyes scanning the campsite. "And where are Tobias and Tomas? Don't tell me they're just wandering around..."

"Sometimes kids need to be left alone... I know when Mum died, God rest her soul, I went missing for two days cuz I needed space," Clopin says.

"I don't remember that," Esmeralda frowns.

"Course not, you were five. Momma Imelda was watching your every step and move. Plus the whole dead mom thing was a lot more pressing than where I was," Clopin says frankly.

Brow furrowed, Esmeralda looks down at her hands that fiddle with her threadbare skirt. Suddenly anxious, she rises from the circle. "Well, if you're not going to find them, I will!" she retorts. Spinning on her heel, she marches from the circle, shaking her head. Clopin may have been a good leader for the Romani of Paris... but sometimes, he was a little too blasé about things.

Esmeralda combs through the entire Court before she finds the two of them sitting in the road. Tomas draws in the sand, sifting the dirt through his fingers as Tobias stares into the distance. Tear tracks stain their cheeks, and instantly, her heart pangs at the sight.

She slowly approaches, making enough noise so she doesn't startle them. Their brown eyes dart up as she kneels before them into the dirt. "Mind if I join you?" she asks with a small smile.

Tomas shakes his head. Tobias remains silent.

Her gaze flickers down to the small drawing he's made in the dirt. "What are you drawing?" she asks sweetly.

Tomas shrugs his shoulders. "I dunno. I didn't decide yet," he says.

"It looks kind of like a horse..."

"He just said he doesn't know," Tobias snaps.

Esmeralda doesn't flinch. A vivid memory of Clopin surfaces, one she thought was lost- she suddenly remembers his surliness, his absolutely defensive nature once mother had passed.

She tilts her head, taking in the older boy's closed off posture, the folded arms, the too-wet eyes. And she carefully says, "It's okay to talk about it. I'll listen."

Tomas and Tobias freeze, and she hopes she hasn't overstepped, hasn't made it worse.

But then, Tomas talks. "Where did Mikail go? They say his soul went away... but where?" he asks innocently.

Esmeralda inhales, preparing herself. She pushes aside her doubts. Pushes away the several qualms she has with the faith, and simply speaks.

"When people pass away... when they die... their soul goes to heaven. It's a lovely place, where they are completely happy... where they are safe," she says.

Tomas looks hopeful, and she sees herself in that gaze. Herself as a child, when she had the same questions.

Tobias however, charges ahead. "That's not what the man in the town square said yesterday," he says.

"And what did the man say?" Esmeralda prods.

Tobias is suddenly quiet. "You can tell me, you won't get in trouble," Esmeralda coaxes.

The boy takes a deep breath. Then, in a big rush, he exhales, "He said that gypsies always go to hell."

Anger floods her. "They certainly do not. What a spiteful, sad little man!" she says forcefully, restraining the much more profane words from spilling out of her mouth.

"He had a cross... he was outside of Notre Dame!" Tobias protests.

Esmeralda shakes her head in indignation. She struggles to restrain her outrage, her absolute hatred. She takes a deep breath, gathering the thoughts that angrily buzz like hornets within her skull.

"Tell me this. Was Mikail an evil little baby? Did he hurt anyone because he liked it?" she asks.

Tomas and Tobias both shake their heads.

"Then there you have it. The man with the cross was wrong..." Esmeralda says with a finality that sounds much stronger than she currently feels.

The two boys look at her with wide, questioning eyes. She suddenly feels so angry at the world, so enraged that it would tell children they were from a cursed race. That they were spoiled goods, always meant for the dark.

Tomas brings her out of her fury with a timid question. "Why do they hate us?" His big eyes are wet with tears.

Her fury thaws into deep sadness. And she reaches over to carefully embrace the small child who trembles. "I don't know, Tomas. Maybe it's because they don't understand us. They think we're too different to be like them, so they're afraid," she says. She hates that she has to hear these words again only this time, instead of a fearful Momma, it comes from her mouth.

"If they're scared, why don't they just run away from us?" Tomas says tearfully.

Esmeralda frowns, trying to explain.

"You know... how knights are afraid of dragons?" she says haltingly.

The two boys look confused.

"Knights, when they see dragons, are really scared of them. So they fight them to get rid of them..." she says.

"...But for us, they're so wrong. We aren't the bad guys. We aren't the villains. They just never took the time to understand that we are just as good as them. That we are just as good as the knights," she says firmly.

Instantly, her thoughts turn to the dark and brooding 'knight' in her life. She purses her lips.

Tobias chimes in. "Can we tell them we're not bad? Can we just tell them?"

_Can they change?_

Esmeralda sighs. Frollo's confusing actions pop in her head. "Maybe... maybe someday," she says softly, her eyes staring out into the distance.

Xxx

When Frollo awakens, he stares up at the brick ceiling, blurry faces coming into view. "His eyes are opening..." says a distant voice over the ringing in his ears.

A groan echoes throughout the room, one he realizes is his own voice. "Where..." he starts.

"You're still in the dungeon, Minister. It appears... you passed out," Bonhomme notes.

Frollo grits his teeth in fury. Weakness. Could he not have a scrap of dignity in this situation?

The ringing in his ears slowly dulls, planes out until the sound is gone. His heart is still pounding, hammering against his ribcage dully.

His back hurts, to put it mildly. They had taken him down from the manacles only to lie him on his bloody, mangled flesh. He clenches his jaw as he prepares to rise.

His bones resemble the consistency of jam, as he soon finds out. Frollo slowly rolls off his back, peeling his skin painfully off from the flagstones. His breath is ragged as the intense pain shoots through his spine, forcing him to close his eyes and recollect his willpower. He feels the strong fingers of his abuser surround his wrist.

"No!" he snarls, wrenching his hand from his punisher. He will not be reduced to a child, a babe howling for its caretaker. He is a man, for God's sake, not an invalid.

He slowly rises to his feet, suddenly remembering his earlier exile. He hardens his face even as a cry of pain wrenches itself into his throat. His mouth is dry, but tastes metallic. _Blood,_ he realizes. He must have bitten his tongue.

Bonhomme stares with something that resembles horror and pity. Frollo's upper lip curls in revulsion at the expression.

He brushes past both men, strides into the hall even as they chide him to stay put, to 'take it easy'. He ignores them. He knows his body. And hell would ice over before a king's attendant and a repurposed executioner would tell him differently.

Still, the pain is nearly unbearable. He ambles up the stairs after he shoulders on his shirt, hissing in pain as fabric rubs against the fresh wounds. As he stumbles to his chambers, he looks down the staircase to see blood splotches trailing him as his back drips. A macabre path leading to the master. How fitting of his reputation.

He soldiers on, bursting into his chambers with another choked cry of agony. He curses his body, his weak body, for betraying him so. Curses his own lungs for having to breath the ragged hoarse cries of pain.

The servants know the routine. A maid stands, the most trustworthy of the bunch, with her eyes averted and an array of wash-cloths and bandages in her arms. He pays her no heed as he wrenches the linens from her arms, dismissing her with a cursory glance.

The bath is drawn. He peels the blood-soaked cotton from his back, hissing as skin peels away with it. He wastes no time sinking into the bath, even as the hot water stings his wounds. Tears of pain well in his eyes, tears he damn well will not let fall.

The routine seems to grow more painful with each passing day. Clean the wounds; use the stinging alcohol to burn away festering humors. Bind them in linen. Stumble into bed nearly delirious in pain.

Her face appears once more in his agony-induced haze. _"You're a stubborn old git, you know that, right?"_ she purrs.

He squeezes his eyes shut, shuddering from the pain as well as his shame. Bonhomme and the executioner had been privy to his mad ramblings. He knew she wasn't before him. But in the heat of the moment... in the blur of agony... he had seen her. Heard her. He buries his face in the coolness of his pillow just to relieve the burning of his cheeks. He wonders how much they heard. How much could they have surmised from his ramblings?

The real Esmeralda was probably in the Court of Miracles, that nest of vipers, and was cavorting with her constituents.

_Well, perhaps not cavorting,_ he thinks, remembering her tear-stained face, her harsh sobs.

He suddenly wonders... who is it she goes home to each night? He realizes he's never thought of her as a woman with a family, only as a gypsy from a caravan. It strikes him as peculiar he never was interested in the subject before. As if he still believes her to be a ghost, a siren, a phantom. Unreal.

In the much more physical world, she mentioned a brother... Clopin. Surely she had a mother then, and a father?

Tonight, she must have been with them. Perhaps they were the ones to wipe her tears, to embrace her.

And yet... as she gripped onto him, earlier today, in the sanctuary... he remembers feeling a certain kinship to her. He remembers a loneliness, a guarded quality about her actions that haunts him.

It was an oddly familiar inexplicable attraction that he found in that pew. She was desperately trying to hold in the tears that just kept falling. Trying to be the strong one, the stoic one.

He remembers long ago, a similar situation. Death. A death in the family where he stood in Notre Dame before the parishioners, fighting back tears. Becoming stone, strong for the younger brother at his side.

But here was where their paths diverged. For her heart was too large, too compassionate to stifle the tears, the sobs that sent a stabbing pain through his center. So she cried, while he was cruel enough, callous enough to remain stone.

Would she have sought comfort in him of all people if she had someone else to break down before at home?

It's a question that perplexes him. It's a question that also reveals so much about her. She is the caretaker. The fierce protector. She cares for the mourning, she does not mourn.

So. One last conundrum before he passes out into thankfully dreamless.

Who cares for the caretaker?

xxx

Thanks for reading! :)


	15. Chapter 14

Phoebus de Chateupers awakens to the rough shoving of an anxious house-maid. As he groggily mutters at Hilda, she says in a quivering voice that there's a message from Frollo of all people.

Needless to say, Phoebus wakes immediately, rolling out of bed and marching out to the hallway in little more than his linen underpants.

"What's happened?" he asks curtly, crossing his arms over his bare chest. Ready for a fight.

"The Minister commands that you see him tomorrow morning," pipes up the youth. Phoebus rubs at his jaw as a large yawn overcomes him.

"Am I in trouble even after being sacked?" he says humorously, still rubbing at his bleary, sleepy eyes.

"N-no, not exactly," the boy says confidently.

Phoebus pauses. "Couldn't this have waited till morning?" he groans. But he sends the boy on his way with a couple of silvers, and rolls back into bed.

For a moment, he stares up at the dark ceiling, listening to Fleur's careful, even breaths. She's a heavy sleeper. He'll have to tell her tomorrow morning just why he's actually leaving the estate for once instead of dragging his heels moping, wishing for something to do.

What the hell would Frollo want with him anyway?

"Doesn't make any bloody sense," he mutters into the darkness.

"Mmmm?" Fleur rolls over.

"Nothing dearest, just sleep," he states solidly.

She's sleepy enough to buy it, so she rolls back to her side, and the even breaths resume. Phoebus lays back against the soft pillow. Suddenly restless, he rises from bed, shuffling to the adjoining room.

Aurora wriggles a little bit, but proves to be as heavy as sleeper as her mother. Phoebus smiles as he approaches the pram, watching her sleep. He instantly feels calmer... even as questions appear, more ominous than the last. Why would Frollo want him? Did he decide that he needed to punish him more?

Was it about Esmeralda?

He rolls his eyes. The poor girl's been through enough, why did he have to drag her into something? Why did they have to drag each other into things?

He shakes his head, and sits in the rocking chair across from the crib. Listening to his daughter's whistling little snores, he soon becomes tranquil, the questions in his mind dimming as sleep overcomes him.

Xxx

The next morning, after a quick explanation to his sleepy wife, Phoebus soon finds himself in the hall outside of Frollo's office, foot tapping anxiously.

The guards that escorted him here keep sneaking glances at him from behind their visors. Phoebus uneasily rocks back and forth on his heels, feeling like he's a bug beneath a magnifying glass.

"So... wonderful weather we're having," he says lamely. The two guards stare at him, no, glare at him.

"Okay then..." he mutters, hitting the back of his head softly against the wall.

The hall is silent, and the tension rises... until the door opens. "The Minister will see you now," Bonhomme states.

Phoebus lumbers into the office, and Bonhomme shuts the door quietly behind him. The former captain looks up to see Judge Frollo at his intimidating post once more.

Xxx

Frollo takes in the former Captain in his plain tunic. The man's nervous, that part is clear. He smirks. At least he still inspires fear in the truant young man.

"Ah, Phoebus. Take a seat. We have much to discuss," he lilts, motioning to the empty chair. The man is at first reluctant, suspicion in his eyes. But he settles down uneasily before him, crossing his legs.

"You... summoned me?" Phoebus asks, with a raise of his eyebrow.

"It would appear so. I trust the message found you well?" Frollo drawls.

"If by well, you mean completely asleep, then yes," Phoebus says frankly.

Frollo stifles the urge to roll his eyes to high heaven. "Yes. I would like to inform you that your suspension is over... as long as you agree to my stipulations," he clips smoothly.

Phoebus stares at him, rendered completely mute. Then, he mutters, "Thought I was sacked permanently."

Frollo's eyes narrow. "It would appear not... unless you object to the punishment you must face," he says coldly.

"Punishment? Wasn't the suspension the punishment?" Phoebus asks daftly.

The room falls silent enough to hear a pin drop. Bonhomme's gaze flashes nervously to the now burning eyes of the minister. Frollo can feel his own scars on his back burn. _No Phoebus. A simple vacation in your estate is not punishment enough. It never is, you dolt!_ He inwardly thunders, skin running hot.

Frollo rises slowly from his chair, fingers twitching. "If you remember correctly, Captain, you committed an act of truancy. You disobeyed orders, direct orders. You should consider yourself lucky, given your history, that I have not evoked the old laws of treason. The ones that would involve your head off your shoulders," he thunders.

Phoebus has the common sense to flinch from the verbal assault. But to Frollo's chagrin, he remains seated, steady. His brown eyes meet Frollo's gaze, and the minister sees a guarded nature, one that hides the captain's true feelings of hatred.

He realizes he needs to press the right nerve in order to get the blasted dolt under his control again. He relaxes the snarl that curls his lips, letting a smirk replace it as the perfect words are conjured in his mind. "So Phoebus. What shall it be? Will you stay and face your proper punishment? Or will you walk out and be an unemployed, lazy aristocrat supported by your lady-wife's dowry?" Frollo asks slyly, his eyes sharp and flinty.

Phoebus's tanned cheeks flush pink, and his upper lip quivers with rage. "You... you..." he stammers, nostrils flared wide and face taut with anger.

"Ah, ah, ah, be careful what your next words are. Whatever the sentence is that comes from your blessed mouth, it shall be noted as your answer," Frollo chides smugly.

Phoebus's mouth shuts immediately, and Frollo inwardly congratulates himself on reigning in the blonde buffoon's antics. Phoebus slumps back in his chair, sullen look on his features as he mulls over the options.

Finally, as predicted, Phoebus says, "Fine. What's the punishment... minister?" he spits out with thinly veiled derision.

Frollo crosses over, unable to disguise his smug satisfaction. At least in some aspects of his life... he was in control.

xxx

As Esmeralda walks out of her tent to start her day, the silence presses heavily on her ears. Save for hushed murmurs and coughing in tents, the whole place is quiet. Maybe it's too early for anyone to be out, but Esmeralda can't help but feel lonely as she sets out for Paris on the empty road, even as Djali trails her steps.

Brutus is quiet as she passes him through the catacombs. Inwardly, she runs through her agenda- dance, tell fortunes, buy some wool for winter.

Well, hopefully the price hasn't gone up. But she doubts that's the case.

The streets of Paris are beginning to fill with shop-keepers and other entertainers. Esmeralda passes by the butcher and his son. The father hisses something aside to the youth.

Esmeralda turns, stopping in her tracks. Scrutinizing the both of them, she calls out, "Lovely morning, isn't it Monsieur?"

The heavy-set man shoots her a glare in response. "Move along, gypsy!" he spits.

"Now, is that any way to talk to a potential customer?" she chides mockingly.

"Move along, witch!" he bellows, brandishing his cleaver.

She stands her ground, eyes narrowing at the red-faced man. She makes a sharp movement towards him, to see the two men flinch in fear.

Suddenly smug, she chuckles to herself and turns away, walking down the road.

However, she soon stops in her tracks once again. "Oi! What did I tell you?! Move along!" the butcher yells coarsely.

She doesn't hear him... her eyes entirely fixed on the flash of gold armor glinting in the distance.

"Phoebus?" she murmurs.

She runs forward, squinting at the figure disappearing into the crowd. Djali bleats loudly behind her, following at her heels.

Finally she gets a little closer, to see the familiar Captain on Achilles. "Phoebus!" she cries out, baffled. How the hell did he get his post back?

The Captain doesn't hear her, and rides off, disappearing into the throng of people gathering. She slumps back on her heels, pursing her lips.

There was no way she was going to get his attention with all of those people crowding around him. She would have to wait to ask him how he got the position back when Frollo so despised him.

Frollo...

It suddenly dawns on her that the minister is actually the one she wants to talk to, not Phoebus. She wants to pick his brain, find out why...

What the hell was wrong with her? The man wouldn't give her a straight answer even if she did ask... would he?

The memory of him clasping her hand, of speaking to her softly in the Cathedral flashes through her mind. She's lost in her own thoughts until she feels Djali softly head-butting her calf.

"If I did something crazy, you wouldn't judge, right?" she murmurs down to the goat as curiosity urges her to do something, be somewhere.

Djali bleats in response.

Esmeralda shrugs her shoulders, then slowly makes her way into a side alley, still indecisive. That edge of uneasiness still guides her thoughts even as she reaches into her bag to fish out the old scroll Phoebus gave to her months ago.

Memories flood her as her fingers clasp around the thin parchment. Memories of her poring over the map, memorizing the paths she needed to take in order to avoid him. Memories of fear, of absolute terror that perhaps the map was wrong, perhaps today would be the day they would meet

It almost seems like a betrayal to that time, that struggle, that she's doing just the opposite with the map. She feels guilty as she finds the next path he will take. She bites her lip, cheeks flushing hot. Mulling it over, pondering, aching over the decision.

_Just move on with it. Go about your day, don't think about it. Just forget about it. _

Yet she doesn't move. Yet her entire existence suddenly boils down to the dotted ink line crisscrossing across the parchment. Damn it, why does she even want to talk to him?

She shakes her head, and huffs out an angry breath as she leans solidly against the wall. When her eyes open, she sees Djali looking expectantly up at her.

"What?" she demands humorously. The goat bleats up at her pointedly.

Her lips curve up in a wry, rueful smile. "Well... I won't talk to him... I'll just... check up on him," she says hurriedly.

Esmeralda turns down the alley and makes her way to the dotted route. She throws on her old woman disguise, scooping up Djali as she hunches over.

She walks quickly, but disguises her gait with the usual limp. She passes by beggars, the normal crowd of scoundrels and unfortunate people.

All the while, her mind is screaming at her in protest. _Why can't you just leave well enough alone? You both have finally gotten to a point where you can just exist in peace. Why are you so fucking stubborn?_

But her feet keep moving, she still feels the pull towards his path, towards him. She hates to admit it... but she's absolutely fascinated by the man. He's aggravating, wrong, so very wrong. But there are glimpses... moments... where he seems... different... like he's trying to change.

_Are you really going to listen to the advice of a noble lady who didn't even know what you were talking about?_ Part of her inwardly protests. Fleur's words were inspiring but it was hard to believe they could actually apply to Frollo of all people.

She reaches his path, and her eyes immediately scan up and down the road. She's careful, keeping her hood up and her head down when someone on horseback looks at her. She disappears into the crowd, all while her keen eyes parse through the sea of faces for the one she loathes and wants to see.

She slips through the crowd, practically invisible as an old peasant. She's so unassuming that no one cares what she does, so long as she follows the crowd.

Before she nearly gives up this quest and goes back to her duties... she spots him.

Her heart leaps into her throat as the familiar black steed trots smoothly along the road. She spies him from behind, triangular chaperone perched sanctimoniously on his head as the minister speaks lowly with the soldier riding alongside him. Esmeralda steps closer quietly, sneaking glances at him from under cloak.

He's obviously irritated at something, by the way his nostrils flare and his teeth are gritted. _What else is new?_ She remarks sarcastically. It seemed more often than not, the minister needed to be complaining about or insulting someone during the day.

She rolls her eyes, but keeps following him, even as Djali shuffles restlessly in her arms. "Quiet please," she entreats softly, moving a hand to stroke her beloved pet's fur.

He rides, hands tight on the reins, head held high in a regal manner. It's so fucking regal that she swears that if the king were to see, he'd have the minister's head cut off for his arrogance. She chuckles under her breath at the thought.

He turns, and immediately, she slips behind a stack of wooden crates leaning heavily against the wall. She almost holds her breath before she reminds herself he's not a bloody hound, he's a man.

Frollo rides past, his terrifying beast of a horse snorting and blowing hot breath into the cool crisp air. She can't help but be slightly in awe of the damn beast, black and strong, the definition of a warhorse. She knows he surely picked the most terrifying of horses to ride, to send the underlings running.

She decides to inwardly call the thing Snowball, just to slight the Minister.

She follows him a good twenty paces behind him, close enough to see, but far enough that he won't see her. All the while, she soothes her restless goat, petting Djali's knotted fur peacefully.

He stops before one of the merchants, asks him something. For a moment he seems somewhat _civil_, business-like. His low, baritone voice is subdued, still authoritative, but not harsh. He motions for a brief moment with his pale, spidery hands, rings catching the light as his fingers move like some fluid being.

She frowns. No wonder he managed to slip into Paris's politics despite his madness. He was authoritative, stern, and charismatic. A dangerous combination.

Even she had to admit he had a certain degree of charisma to him. Something she saw in Clopin as he led their people.

Frollo gives the man a curt nod, and keeps going, riding through the streets. The throngs of milling people immediately part as they let the minister and his steed through. They stare up at him, a measure of awe and fear in their gazes. Yes. He definitely was charismatic. _And dangerous_, she thinks pointedly to herself.

She trails him past several homes and through the main streets of the city, making herself scarce. Finally, they exit into the main square before Notre Dame.

He urges the horse to stop, dismounting the beast to tie it off in front of the church. He pays the horse-keeper, handsomely of course.

Claude Frollo turns to the enormous cathedral before him, and strides forward fluidly. He stops before the door, tilting his head to the side as if he's... sensed something. She stops in her tracks, crouching down as if to pick something up. Her heart leaps into her throat.

Eventually she dares to look up... to see he's gone, the door closing heavily behind him.

She lets out a breath she wasn't aware she was holding. Esmeralda waits, knowing that he's near the door. After ten seconds, she shuffles over to the door and slips into the cathedral.

The cool, damp air hits her skin as soon as she enters the sanctuary. She waits a moment for her eyes to adjust to the candlelit gloom, hood still up. Djali nickers into her neck, and she stifles a laugh. "Stop it," she breathes to the goat, her keen eyes staring through the dim space to find Frollo several paces ahead.

Silently, she steps towards him, bare feet instantly meeting cold tile. She stifles a shiver, clutching the cloak tighter to her frame.

She slips behind a pillar, and sneaks glances to the Minister.

Claude Frollo steps slowly towards the front pews, head held high, but his chaperon removed. But once he enters deeper into the sanctuary... an odd transformation occurs.

Suddenly, his head bows, and his posture become somewhat smaller, as if he's shrunk somehow. He kneels at the pew, languid but exacting hands crossing himself. He rises again, and enters the wooden pew with the careful, practiced movements of a regular parishioner.

He kneels... _a good look for him,_ she thinks snidely.

But as cynical as she is, as much as she doubts the very church she stands in... she has to admit that there is something... _different_ about his look. As if something higher has affected him.

He clasps those hands before him, not leaning forward, but keeping his back straight. His spine is like iron, unbending, unyielding. She wonders if he ever can relax.

He murmurs lowly, and she leans forward, straining to hear. "Beata maria..." he intones deeply, the words rumbling from his throat, sounding like an approaching storm cloud.

She tilts her head as she tries to discern the man before her. At times he's so fearsome... but here, with his head bowed, his lips mouthing old, reverent words, he seems so small. He's so pious, yet so humble, as the sunlight filters through the stained glass and lands upon his face, dappling his white skin blue and red.

She wonders what he prays for. She also wonders what he was like as a boy, first learning about the God he now spends his life pontificating for.

"You can come out now. No need to hide."

His voice is like a bucket of ice water. She freezes, paralyzed by her own stupidity. _Damn it, damn it, damn it!_

She looks up to see he's staring straight at her, dark eyes boring into her own green ones. She suddenly feels short of breath, as if his words have taken the air from her lungs.

She decides to play it off as casual. "Praying again, priest?" she taunts, removing her cloak in a sharp, harsh movement. Djali bleats in response, a noise that makes the minister raise an eyebrow.

"The infernal ram. Charming," he quips sardonically.

She blows an errant strand of hair from her face, narrowing her eyes in displeasure as she lowers Djali to the ground.

Djali sticks close to her side as she walks towards the Minister, arms crossed, every step purposeful, lithe enough that she can run at a moment's notice.

"I was about to visit Quasimodo. Want to come?" she offers mockingly.

"You're a terrible liar," he surmises. The words sound like a realization, an epiphany to him.

"No I'm not," she protests.

"Esmeralda, I'm a man of the law and an agent of it. Do you really think I don't know when I'm being lied to? Or tracked?" he says pointedly as he rises from his pew.

His tone is sharp, biting. But there's humor in his eyes, a wry smirk playing on his lips. This is fun for him.

She then gives him a sweet smile. Too sweet. "I thought I was a good liar. After all, I am a gypsy," she says bitingly.

"I'm quickly learning that not all gypsies are alike," he says quietly.

"Wow. It only took decades," she says snidely.

But Frollo sees his comment isn't lost on her by the way her eyes widen minutely at his own admission.

He steps lithely towards her, only for the goat to dart in front of its master, bleating and preparing to charge. He gives her a wry look in response.

"Come on Djali," she coos, scooping up the animal that nestles further into her arms. "I take it he's no fan," he states flatly.

"Ohhh, he just doesn't take kindly to soldiers, do you Djali?" she coos, rocking the animal as if it were a child.

His eyes roll skyward. "So, why is it you chose to find me?" he asks.

Her gaze snaps up to his. "No reason," she says too quickly.

"Liar."

"How do you know?"

"I just do."

"How amazing. Can you read my mind as well?"

For a moment, he shakes his head, wry smile touching his lips. "Just... ask me. Ask me what you wanted to," he says, and she senses the sincerity behind his words.

She blinks, and then tilts her head in a quizzical manner. Finally, she says, "I want to know about Phoebus. Why did you put him back in as Captain?"

The moment she mentions his name, his body language changes, as his limbs becoming stiff beneath the heavy velvet robes, his facial muscles becoming taut and hard. "Ah, I should have known. The gallant captain Phoebus is your fixation," he says tightly.

Her expression doesn't change; she doesn't flinch in the face of his surly remark. "That's not the answer," she replies.

His jaw muscles tighten. But in a way, he asked for this. He asked for her question, it simply displeased him.

But he eventually lets the answer fall from his mouth. "He was a necessary replacement for an incompetent officer," he says dryly.

"Necessary? I guess you don't hate him after all," she chuckles.

But he leans forward, veins bulging from his neck, jaw clenched so tight he has to work to let the words escape in an icy hiss. "Let me be perfectly clear- just because the man is somewhat competent at his job, does not mean I do not loathe your _beloved,_" he lashes out, heat coloring his cheeks.

Esmeralda blinks in mystification, as she comprehends his accusation. Her fists clench as her brows furrow in outrage. "I don't like your implication. He's married, and my friend. Nothing more," she retorts hotly.

"Oh yes. Your friend who protected you for weeks, hiding you under my nose. What a case of camaraderie, " he replies sarcastically.

"Just because you don't have any friends like that doesn't mean that they don't exist," she says firmly.

"My apologies. But the last interaction I witnessed involving the two of you implied much more than friendship," he replies coolly, but the glint in his eyes is anything but cold. There's a fire there, burning, all too telling. And she remembers, as painful as the memory is, that morning on the bell-tower. She remembers what he saw.

Frollo suddenly realizes he might have resurrected old skeletons through his comments. Old, painful memories that she never wanted. That he never wanted. Realizing his gaffe, he inwardly berates himself, his own self-loathing skyrocketing.

"I'm... sorry," he says quietly, rubbing at his eyes as a burgeoning migraine blooms in his temples.

She frowns, her mind reeling. Her eyes are cast away from him, and he can only imagine the horrors she sees behind her closed lids. He rubs harder at his forehead, disappointment welling in his chest, growing like a lead weight.

Esmeralda mulls over his statement, over the memories that rise to the forefront of her mind. But instead of letting them overwhelm her, she takes a deep breath, takes his apology into account, and then exhales.

"Yes, Phoebus and I were together. For a time," she says sharply, giving him a pointed glance. "...but that was months ago. And before you accuse me of any unrequited feelings of love... I left him. I chose to leave; I didn't want to get married. So that's all," she says firmly, her eyes unflinching in their gaze.

Quiet falls over the both of them, the silence thick in the peaceful cathedral. For a moment, he looks at her, truly looks at her. He sees the gentle, yet tight clutching of her arms around her beloved pet. He sees her green gaze glinting softly in the colored light streaming through the stained glass windows around them. He sees the jut of her angular jaw, in its stubborn position of rebelliousness. She's unafraid.

Her words sink deep into his mind. All the while, she stares at him, scrutinizing every stifled emotion that flickers briefly across his softened features.

Esmeralda finds that his face seems different to her now. Softer, less angular and harsh. As if empathy touches his features and moves them like a painter editing his work.

Frollo looks at her. "You left him... you left Paris..."

"Yes, I did," she confirms.

"You were alone," he realizes with a frown.

_Who cares for the caretaker?_

Esmeralda doesn't seem fazed, and instead shrugs her shoulders. "Not completely. I had Djali. And Skylla," she muses.

Frollo then tilts his head in inquisition. "Skylla?" he pronounces frowning.

"Oh, right. My horse... well, my horse given to me. By Phoebus. Before I left," she adds quickly.

His head jerks back as he considers something. "Skylla... would not happen to be the tan-colored breeding mare that is currently occupying my stables?"

Esmeralda gives him such a sheepish smile, accompanied by a shrug. "I didn't put her there... I can neither confirm or deny," she says, and he senses a light humor to her words.

A crooked smile touches his lips. "But Phoebus can," he replies somewhat deviously.

"Maybe. What will you do with her? Turn her out?" she says, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

"Do you truly believe me so heartless- no, don't answer that question, never mind," he clips.

She laughs, and for a moment, he's paralyzed, listening to her throaty chuckle that starts a bloom of warmth in his lower abdomen.

"I guess not. Maybe you're the kind who likes horses better than people," she replies.

He purses his lips and rolls his eyes, but she sees amusement in his eyes. "At least horses, if taught well, may prove useful," he says snidely.

"Maybe people are the same," she says.

"You're too optimistic for your own good," he says with a nod of his head in her direction.

"And you're too pessimistic," she replies quickly, smirking.

Djali bleats loudly, interrupting the both of them. Frollo shoots a glare at the animal simultaneously as Esmeralda smiles. "Little antsy, aren't you?" she coos, slowly lowering the goat onto the ground.

When she straightens up to meet his gaze, his mind mulls over this new development. And he debates what he should do with the new knowledge.

"Would you... like to see this horse again?" he says haltingly, his every word delicate and careful.

A questioning look flickers over her features. "I.. yes, I did love her. She was great," Esmeralda replies, an inquisitive edge to her words.

He breathes in slowly, assembling the sentence in his head, changing and re-changing the simple question several times before trusting himself to speak.

"I could let you see her. If you feel so inclined," he says curtly.

She has to process that for a moment, absolutely shocked by the idea. "You... would let me see her?" she says skeptically. But there's a glimmer of hope that dances in her eyes, one that has him painfully optimistic. It's an unfamiliar uncertain feeling that has him nearly trembling before her.

"Yes... if you are truly... curious," he finishes, his mouth suddenly dry. The logistics of his requests shouldn't be so hard to pull off from a practical standpoint... but then he imagines it. Them together. Alone. So close to his abode, so close to his hideaway...

He feels the pull of temptation... one that intensifies as she crosses her arms tighter, pushing the swell of her bosom higher... Oh God, he's made a terrible mistake.

"How do I know this isn't a trap?" she says astutely, and Lord, is she right. The way her cheeks flush red, he wants that in his possession. He wants her throaty cries, desires her body, lithe, wriggling and squirming against his. He wants her to cling to him, kiss him...

This is a mistake.

But if he never convinced her that he was... somewhat trustworthy... it would mean the eventual end to all of this. The verbal sparring, the tender moments, however brief.

He needs this more than drink and food. He needs this more than oxygen.

"You'll have to trust me," he drawls casually, but the piercing quality of his eyes reveals his somberness, the gravity of the words he so glibly replied with.

Esmeralda's eyes widen minutely in comprehension, and she instantly catches her lower lip in her teeth. _Trust him_. The very words send chills up her spine, and the hairs on her neck standing straight up. She's suddenly defensive, her head spinning as she considers the possible outcomes. He could attack her. He could easily take her in chains to the Palace of Justice.

Yet as she looks at him... she sees a yearning. A need that stretches beyond lust. She's not naïve. She knows the way he looks at her, the hunger that dances in his eyes. But... perhaps she is too optimistic. But she also sees a newfound tenderness, a need to be different.

She's too curious to stop this. Too involved.

"What happens if I trust you, and I'm wrong?" she asks pointedly.

He shakes his head, purses his lips. "Well, you have your dagger, don't you?" he says sardonically, but his eyes are unyielding. _He's dead serious, _she realizes.

She debates. He sees the cogs of her mind turn through her eyes.

Then, she says, "And you better not forget it... I'll go... but I swear Frollo, you so much as touch me... " She doesn't finish the sentence, a haunted look in her eyes. She doesn't have to.

He nods seriously. "Well... I suppose we shall make plans. Saturday the next, early afternoon?" he says casually, but his heart infuriatingly hastens its beat, betraying him.

She gives a small huff of laughter. "I suppose so... will that fit in with your daily torture regiment?" she taunts.

"Oh, I believe it shall. Good day," he drawls sinisterly.

He turns to enter his pew once again, but then, he feels the slightest pressure on his arm.

"Hey. What about we seal the deal, Minister?" she says teasingly, scrunching her nose in such an endearing manner, warmth expands in his chest.

Baffled he turns to her, about to assault her with a tirade of questions... when he sees her outstretched hand. Raising an eyebrow, he frowns, scrutinizing her limb as if it were poison. "Oh for the love of God, it's not a snake!" she exclaims.

He slowly extends his hand, attempting to keep his face neutral. He lets her grasp first, knowing he can't make the first move.

When her palm meets his, he instantly yearns for more. She squeezes strongly for someone her size. A smile flickers on his lips, brief, but enough to cause Esmeralda's heart to beat faster.

Esmeralda pulls away, too soon for his liking. But she doesn't scamper off yet, simply stands there, eyes gleaming in the soft light.

"There. I... suppose I shall see you then," she says awkwardly, realizing just how odd the situation is.

"Yes... I trust you know where the Palace of Justice is?" he asks haltingly.

"Mmmhmm," she coos, her voice a little high pitched.

"I... better go. Long day," she nods.

"Yes..." he murmurs.

She calls for her pet, then gathers Djali into her arms. With a parting glance that has him bewitched to say the least, she strides out of the Cathedral, leaving him hot and wanting as his eyes fall on her lithe walk and steps.

Frozen for a moment, he closes his eyes... and swears that he can still feel her hand slipping into his own.

xxx

Hello! Thank you for reading, and all the lovely reviews and PMs! They really keep me motivated to keep writing! -Cgal


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